Kain Orindar sat at his wooden desk, the flickering light of the oil lamp casting long shadows across the room. His muscular frame, scarred from years of battle, was hunched over as his hand gripped the quill tightly. The deep grooves of his brow furrowed in concentration. A soft breeze from the open window stirred the edges of the parchment, carrying with it the scent of the wild forest outside.

He dipped the quill in ink, then began writing, his script sharp and deliberate.

To the Council of the Sylvari,

I write to you as the leader of the Emberclaw Clan, in hopes that our past alliances and mutual respect will compel you to aid me in a matter most urgent. For many years, my mother, Lyra Orindar, has suffered from Crimson Breath, a disease that ravages the lungs and leaves the body fragile. It strikes without warning, turning breath into a struggle, and blood often comes with each cough, a sure sign that her strength is fading.

The healers of our people have done what they can, but there is no cure that human hands can craft. I know the elves possess knowledge beyond our own, and I humbly request that you send your finest healer to our lands, if there is even the faintest hope of saving her life. Crimson Breath has claimed many lives in my tribe, but I refuse to see it take my mother.

This disease saps her strength more each day. Her lungs burn with every breath, and her once strong frame has withered to something unrecognizable. If you have any knowledge, any magic that can heal her, I beg you, lend your aid.

You know well the peace we’ve maintained over the years, and it is my hope that this will continue. I ask this not as a leader, but as a son who is watching his mother slip away before his eyes.

The Emberclaw Clan awaits your response.

Kain Orindar,
Leader of the Emberclaw Clan

Kain’s hand hovered over the parchment for a moment before signing his name with a sharp flick of his wrist. He stared at the letter, jaw clenched, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air.