Vishra

He patted the envelope in his left breast pocket. It was still there, as it always was, but old habits die hard.

The letter within was penned what felt like ages ago. It was looking likely that he would take as long to send it as he did to write it. There was always something—the wrong time, the wrong place, the wrong mood, the wrong company.

Satisfied that the letter was still safe in its envelope, albeit more weathered and wrinkled than it was the day before, Vishra began the process of strapping on his armor. Greaves first. Left, then right. His hafling squire orbited around him like a dutiful moon. The best squires were shadows, always present, always near, but never in the way. Tipple was one of the best.

His plate hung heavier today than it usually did. Truthfully, it wasn’t just the plate. It was weight of the years, the weight of the coming battle, the weight of the damn letter. He’d faced the worst Norrath could throw at him and here he was, a nervous little boy too meek to tell a woman the truth. This was one of those things that time never made easier—except to make excuses.

He punched one of the wooden beams supporting the pavilion with his gauntleted hand. Tipple didn’t flinch. Instead, he carefully lifted Dawnbreaker, the sword that could cleave morning itself, and began strapping it to his charge’s back with the aid of a stepstool.

Vishra believed with every fiber of his being that she deserved to know, needed to know. To him, she was the heart of Norrath, holding up everything while it all threatened to fall down. And she did it with grace and poise and strength. More strength than he had ever shown.

“Tipple, today is the day. If I can’t summon the courage to finally do this one simple task, if I turn and run like I have so many times before, if I break like some half-trained conscript, then may the gods strike me down.”