Jail

Wychtleth walked into the jail. She soon pulled her hood down, looking around, "Decent looking for a jail..."

Nelnardis tried not to look at the two boys rattling the door of her cell. They kept speaking in Rohirric, seemingly trying to get her attention.

“Maybe she only understands Westron,” one finally said in the common tongue.

Dear Papa,

My dear Papa,

As Blince sat in that old chair he'd placed there himself in the Shadow Blade's prison, he began to ponder, more so out of boredom than anything else. Many things came across his mind, Triche and Bianca, his deceased wife and child, though were never far from his thoughts.

One of my fondest memories was when I casually faked my death for no reason other than because I could. We were in the Pony. By we, I mean me and Threland, the troublesome duo of hatted, alcoholic terror that plagues the drinking houses of Breeland and even beyond at times. Obviously we had drunk some ale although not excessively; instead we were basking in the glorious glow of that pre-tipsy stage where the world starts to fall into place once more - basically the state that I spend almost the entirety of my life at.

(A sloppy handrwitting, the letters are badly shaped and the text is readible with some effort.)