Undelivered letter.

In an unlit corner of a cobwebbed closet, a letter went undelivered, unread, and unloved. It gained its power by it's not being received more so than if it had. Both parties assumed the worst: each thought that the other was ignoring or, worse, abandoning the other. The insecurity that rattled their rib bones, hardly protecting their hearts, gave clearance to these notions, instead of just assuming the most logical, and true explanation: that there was good reason and cause for not hearing from each other. Indeed, if they had known, they thought of each other often, and with loyalty and friendship.

Fortuna is a slippery girl, and quite careless, and she is the one who slid the scroll off the stack and blew it into the space, lost, as if down a mine shaft with a dead canary. No one sang of its presence, or sounded the alarm when the letter was lost. (An echo of a giggling goblin could be heard, though, if you listened carefully..)

The letter said:

My dearest friend and champion, 

I fully understand your duties lie elsewhere, and your loyalties are true and sure, but I must urge you to please send word of your health and happiness to me if you can. Our mutual friend, the little gnome, is wasting away; she won't eat, or drink, and her water minion has grown moldy and mildewy. She has gone into seclusion, and only her death knight serves her now. She is not healthy. I am faring much better--my weapons are sharp, my armor is bright, but my heart is conflicted. I miss your presence, but do understand that, however selfish it is of me, that you must serve others, and seek more golden, fortunate boons than what is offered here. There are greater rewards in other worlds, or at least I've been told. Some news that may interest you: my sister Luperci has reached a substantial level of training, and seeks one of your acquaintances in the healing arts. Perhaps you know of a priest who would enlighten her path? She still struggles with holding the monsters close to her, but indeed, is coming along. Her success depends upon the aid of a skilled healer: she is humbled by this. (And we both know the necessary arrogance of paladins: it is their survival and their fatal flaw.)

Please send word -- your friend, M

Instead of doing the logical thing, which would have been simply to send a second letter, just to make sure, she waited foolishly. She imagined he had been cannibalized by trolls. Or skewered by murlocs. Or ripped by talons of basilisks. These were her nightmarish worries. But then, she remembered that nothing got past him, nothing hurt him, and she took a deep breath, and reassured herself. All would be well. Or it would not. Or it would.

But those are the swirly-thoughts and spinning, ever-collapsing-on-itself conclusion: when there is no word, our minds fill the void for us. Nature, and hearts, abhor a vacuum.

Lupe has a few drinks after a bad dungeon run...Sorely kept buying rounds...

 Postscript: Luperci is Level 70. There is a wide swing between dungeon groups: there are those who allow her to set the pace, and those who don't. It has been a very different experience being on this side of the shield to say the least.