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A clean, crisp piece of paper lays flattened upon the side of the Floating Flagon, not a nail pressing it to the building's side. To those who knew arcane magic, they would almost instantly realize the many uses the cantrip 'prestigation' had, even if they were not worthy for battle. The words upon it clearly written with a long, flourish at the end of each letter's word.
"As one who walks the path of a tale teller, treading with jesters and skalds alike it is in my experience that the truth is almost always stranger than any fantastic imagery a humble entertainer such as myself could conjure... as entrapping as such tales can be. Perhaps only the beginning... or end of this particular tale. The words are fresh in mind as I write this, not a single line that was spoken is my own. A wrong turn from the fair city of Sundren had lead me to the Necropolis... A place I was only vaguely familiar with. It is why I retreated into the church, only to come across a fascinating conversation. I knew not the name of the beautiful, dark...nearly black skinned woman that stood before the taller of the pair. One dressed in glistening red armor, as if bloody from her experience in battle. Taller, broader, with a strength reflected in her set jaw and severity brought out by hair pulled from the face. The one adorned in crimson armor spoke of how she would have raised the other, to which the black pearl merely stated with more than a hint of sadness that the woman had not. I would have listened to more, but I did not want to violate their privacy more than I had. Gather what I had to from the Justicar, I left the church and instead tuned my instrument. It was awhile before they came out, the pain was palpable in the air as they began to walk from the dread church. The bloody shell of the warrior could not protect her heart, as the last words I heard her say before leaving was a saddened "You don't understand...you know. You really don't"From my stay in Sundren I know...and have seen that innocent elves have been assaulted for the misfortune of having white hair and dark skin, as they could look akin to a drow to those without a discriminating eye... this bard thinks that Shar enjoys the very thought of it... but what of the dark skinned woman? Could she have been speaking to her mother, who had abandoned her at birth? Perhaps a relative, a god parent... Could she had been the result of an affair betwixt an elf, or perhaps a drow? That is for the reader to decide, as for now the real truth is hidden from prying eyes and grasping hands."
The small print ends abruptly, the largest of the letters a mere 'A', though more artistically painted onto the paper than written.
"As one who walks the path of a tale teller, treading with jesters and skalds alike it is in my experience that the truth is almost always stranger than any fantastic imagery a humble entertainer such as myself could conjure... as entrapping as such tales can be. Perhaps only the beginning... or end of this particular tale. The words are fresh in mind as I write this, not a single line that was spoken is my own. A wrong turn from the fair city of Sundren had lead me to the Necropolis... A place I was only vaguely familiar with. It is why I retreated into the church, only to come across a fascinating conversation. I knew not the name of the beautiful, dark...nearly black skinned woman that stood before the taller of the pair. One dressed in glistening red armor, as if bloody from her experience in battle. Taller, broader, with a strength reflected in her set jaw and severity brought out by hair pulled from the face. The one adorned in crimson armor spoke of how she would have raised the other, to which the black pearl merely stated with more than a hint of sadness that the woman had not. I would have listened to more, but I did not want to violate their privacy more than I had. Gather what I had to from the Justicar, I left the church and instead tuned my instrument. It was awhile before they came out, the pain was palpable in the air as they began to walk from the dread church. The bloody shell of the warrior could not protect her heart, as the last words I heard her say before leaving was a saddened "You don't understand...you know. You really don't"From my stay in Sundren I know...and have seen that innocent elves have been assaulted for the misfortune of having white hair and dark skin, as they could look akin to a drow to those without a discriminating eye... this bard thinks that Shar enjoys the very thought of it... but what of the dark skinned woman? Could she have been speaking to her mother, who had abandoned her at birth? Perhaps a relative, a god parent... Could she had been the result of an affair betwixt an elf, or perhaps a drow? That is for the reader to decide, as for now the real truth is hidden from prying eyes and grasping hands."
The small print ends abruptly, the largest of the letters a mere 'A', though more artistically painted onto the paper than written.