<em>"I'm not going to  leave you in here alone to steal whatever you want.  Besides you could use my help. What if the guards come? I can come up with a story to get your out safe."</em>He can hear her stepping through the chamber behind him.<br/><br/><em>"Besides … I might decide to do a little looking myself."</em><br/><br/>"As you wish, just be quick. I'm not waiting around while you satisfy your curiosity." There! The year he'd been searching for. He rummages through the alchemical shelf, opening the significant few in sealed tubes first. He reads the heading of each scroll before tossing it away. A potion of rejuvenation, a tincture for staving off porphyria, a concoction to ward off the undead, where is it? He tosses away the final scroll, a mixture of spirits and roots that renders the subject incapable of lying. His anger flares, and he kicks the scrolls away.<br/><br/>"Gods dammit!"<br/><br/>He reaches up to the next shelf, labeled "correspondence." There has to be something here, at least news of Crescent Glen. Amongst them is a single sealed tube, he opens it, and his breath catches when he glances at the bottom. Three words, in handwritten scrawl:<br/><br/><div align="center"><em>My love,<br/>Kerklos</em></div><br/>Written by the man himself!<br/><br/>He quickly reads the letter from it's beginning, there's no address, only a hastily scrawled name.<br/><br/><div align="center"><em>Siriel<br/><br/>Even here they pursue me, I can hear them now baying at the edge of the woods. I am certain by the time this reaches you, I shall be dead. I only hope this infernal concoction may be kept from their hands for now. I have visited the exile town you told me of, they are calling it Marchtown, their thirty days march from the woods. I cannot see how that shantytown can last the next winter. They will not have it from my hand, they can hardly able defend against the roving bandits, much less the war party that stalks these woods. I am scattering my notes amongst our friends in the mountains, towers, and woods. You are the furthest from this mess, and have all the access you need to the most crucial ingredient. I have attached my notes on preparing it properly. If what you have told me of does come to pass, the exiles may have need of it yet.<br/><br/>I must be brief, Cilron is calling me to the war table. I am not frightened by the looming curtain of death ahead of me, but when I remember our time together, I am embittered. I am robbed of your visage, and your touch. My only hope is that I may see the heavens, that we might meet again on some distant field.<br/><br/>My Love,<br/>Kerklos</em></div><br/>Laszlo examines the rest of the parchment, turning it over in his hands. There is no further writing. He picks up the tube, peering inside and shaking it, nothing tumbles out. A sudden realization dawns on him, and he starts tearing into the correspondence shelf in a frenzy, eyeing and tossing scrolls.<br/><br/>"They can't have," he growls.