The Letter

[Pistol]

It was just another beautiful morning in Southshore as the townspeople busied themselves at opening up shops to serve the many merchants , travelers and soldiers coming and going from the busy port. What was left of Lordaeron in Hillsbrad was thriving despite being on the precipice of oblivion.

A young man passed out on the floor of the inn was not feeling that prosperity. He was instead feeling the prodding of Footman Jackson's boot. The man slowly awoke as the portly grey-bearded Footman looked on.

"Didn't make it to your room this time, boy," said Footman Jackson with an air of disappointment.

The young man mumbled, "Sorry, I didn't realize I drank that much."

"Neither did Anderson so how'd ya get enough to be on the floor, Albert? We all know they don't sell to you in here and the only way they let you work is if you don't drink so how'd you get it," questioned the Footman. "People are starting to think you're stealing around here, you better have a good answer."

Albert looked to him and begged, "Can I sit first, I'll tell you then, I promise."

The Footman helped pull up Albert from the floor and took him out to one of the empty tables closest to the fireplace of the inn. The Footman's belly pressed firm against the table as he leaned towards Albert.

He asked impatiently, "Well, where'd you get it?"

Albert stammered, "A whole crate...it washed ashore a few weeks ago. Full of jarred whiskey. Musta fell off a ship, its not good stuff, crew probably snuck it on board."

The Footman sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"Don't you believe me? I'm telling the truth," continued Albert frantically.

The Footman responded, "I do believe you, boy but you're gonna have to show me this crate after we have a cup of tea. You have it hid outside somewhere?"

Albert weakly nodded.

The Footman stood up and went to the kitchen, the Innkeeper was out at market this time of day. No sales lost this early in the morning. He returned with two mugs and sat them down on the table. He stood there for longer than he had to before going to the bar counter.

The old Footman chuckled before he returned to hand off the letter, "I forgot your letter, boy. Innkeeper said it came this morning for ya. Here ya go"

Albert had the letter in his hands for a moment before a sense of dread filled him. He had seen the handwriting on the front from the last of many horrible letters he received two years before. He looked on at his name written on the front of the envelope in large letters and underlined, TO ALBERT CROFT

The Footman sat down across from Albert and sipped away jovially at his tea as he looked out the window at Southshore's waking movements.

He glanced to Albert as he asked jokingly, "Well, who's it from? Secret admirer, some thug, or somethin?"

Albert shook his head as he mumbled, 'No, no,no,not again."

Albert opened the envelope and quickly realized he had just received another handwritten copy of the same letters he received repeatedly two years prior. He knew now, it was never going to end

Little Albie,

I still remember the last time we were together as a family. The 5th Royal Infantry under Duke Varamas, that was our regiment. Everyone answered the call, there were four of us from our family. We were ordered to march north without rest and delay Scourge forces advancing into Silverpine. It was suicidal but it would save the lives of many villagers as they evacuated from northern Silverpine.

The battle at the border was fierce and swift. We held back the forward elements of the Scourged masses for the better part of a day at most before our lines were shattered. Your brothers fell before I did, I saw them there on the ground torn to ribbons. I died soon after but that was our duty. The duty that you abandoned. You had deserted the regiment as we marched north when you knew we would have no time to look for you.

Why did you do this, my little Albie? Did we not instill a love of Kingdom in you? Of your countrymen? Of your family?
One of the prisoners our Deathguard took last year told me you're the town drunk. Is that why you deserted so you could drink yourself to death? That's pathetic.

You've rejected my multiple offers of a proper military tribunal at Tarren Mill in cowardly silence, proof that you must have no dignity left and would rather die of drunkenness. I hope you don't make it that long, Southshore would surely be a better place if you drowned in a gutter.

From your former father,
Robert Croft

((To be continued...))

[Pistol]

Notes: Figure'd I'd post it and damn further editing for right now.

[Merikkinon]

Oh wow. Such a great story. Please roll on with that, if the mojo is there.

Wow.

[Pistol]

Glad ya liked it. I figure I'll continue it sometime soon.

[Maldraxxus]

This is awsome! Well done! Lovely read.

[Xantros]

When I read, 'copy of the same letter' I thought, hmm something is probably not right here. I didn't expect his Forsaken father to send him letters! :O Pretty interesting, I would like to read more :)

[Mantigora]

Wow, this is some nice writing. I both like the words aswell as the setting.
And for the story, yes that is a very interesting idea with a lot of potential for future content.
What an idea, Undead - Human interaction like this!
Hope to see more coming.

And it makes me want to make some coffee myself!

[Sinrek]

Coffee? Failed liver? You sure those are the terms people in this setting would use?

[Pistol]

Coffee? Failed liver? You sure those are the terms people in this setting would use?

The mention comes from it being somewhat present in retail. Old habit on my part, spose it'd be more reasonable for it to be tea. Fine with me.
As for liver failure, upon a bit of research, it was discovered surprisingly recently so I spose I'll edit that a bit as well.

[Sinrek]

Other than that — captivating!! Even more interesting than the Gutter.

[Xantros]

The earliest account of coffee roasting and drinking is from 15th century Arabia, so that is plausible.
And the gnomes probably have a coffee machine, that humans can buy. :D