Nobles of D'Hara,
This news may not elicit much concern in most, but I will share it anyway.
Today I received word that Flint, adventurer of D'Hara and Champion Ranger of the Royal Rangers, has fallen in battle against the undead. I do not know the place nor the manner of his death.
Flint was of common blood. He will have no elaborate funeral with pallbearers, stoic gentlemen and weeping gentlewomen. His is most likely a grave in some rural patch of dirt, marked by a rudimentary headstone hastily put together by sympathetic farmers.
He had no banner, no coat-of-arms bearing his titles. Indeed he had not even a family name. Perhaps he was a bastard.
I don't know.
But Flint was D'Haran, and a Ranger at that.
When we struggled to hold Paisly, Flint was there, fighting desperately in the alleys to staunch the formation of new hordes. When the Sallowcape fell and we had to retake it, Flint was there, sent ahead of us by me to skirmish and scout.
His was the sword in the dark places of the world where us nobles could not go. His was the torch in forgotten tombs where the dead rest uneasily, or in the tangled woods where ravenous beasts are wont to gather.
Now his sword is sheathed, his torch extinguished, his watch ended.
Not many will do this for a mere commoner, but I will remember him.
Katarina Von Striga
Duchess of Sallowcape Strait
Viscountess of Qubel
