Year of the Emperor 280, Beltane
My dearest Reinolt,
I write to you from the Sitztange Encampment, which is, I assure you, as dreadful as it sounds. The journey here was a parade of indignities—mud, rockslides, and the sort of provincial hospitality that makes one long for the civility of Konigsheim. We passed through towns so quaint they seemed to have been painted by a child with no sense of proportion or taste. The people stared as if we were apparitions. I suppose they’ve never seen a man of value in full regalia.
The battalion is settled, though the accommodations are rustic. I’ve had to make do with a tent that leaks in the morning dew and a cook who believes salt is a luxury. I’ve taken to dining on hard biscuits and the capital wine you thoughtfully gave me. It is a comfort.
There are rumors that some of the western battalions have begun dealings with goblins. Goblins, Reinolt. Can you imagine? I find it utterly barbaric. What next—diplomacy with trolls?
Alendria, I’m told, has a beautiful countryside. If the campaign proceeds as planned, I shall petition my father for a villa. Something with a sunny view, where we might doff our overcoats.
Alaric is here, of course. He is as he always is—stoic, dutiful, and utterly consumed by the weight of command. I sometimes wonder if he even notices the world around him. He speaks little, and when he does, it is with the tone of a man addressing a ledger.
I miss Konigsheim. I miss the salons, the music, and the company. I dream of Frau von Wassenberg's renowned Samhain gatherings. When this is over, we must attend.
Yours in exile,
Lorenz