Olesya's Dispatches - To Rutger Leichtenberg, Bretonnia

The Ubersreik Five may not know Olesya Pimenova as a conversationalist, but the caustic Kislevite is secretly a prolific writer of letters. Amongst her grimoires and arcane paraphernalia are stowed reams of gossip and covert intelligence from across the Old World. To what purpose this correspondence? Nobody knows. Suffice to say, Olesya's fingers are in many pies.

Dear Rutger

So. You come crawling back after all these decades… or at least your decaying valet does.

I insist you deploy a less foul-smelling emissary the next time you deign to woo me. Saltzpyre was rendered hysterical when he found the foul thing leaking bodily fluids all over his relics. It took the shopkeeper - who’s appointed himself custodian of this dreary abode - a full hour to clean up the mess. Mind, Saltzpyre’s sermons have been especially tedious of late, and so I should probably admit to being grateful for the best laugh I’ve had in seasons.

In fact, on that subject you may be able to make yourself useful. And be under no illusion, the fact you are currently in the chivalric lands (or whatever is left of them) is the only reason I am deigning to reply.

Would you believe we have a rather statuesque Grail Knight here at the keep? Occasionally, anyway. An incredibly attentive one with a penchant for elegant headgear, and an impeccable pedigree. He’s one of the de Mandelots, in fact - not that that would mean anything to the likes of you. While Saltzpyre is convinced that Bretonnia and all of its inhabitants are in thrall to necromantic overlords (and should be entirely razed to the ground), Kruber is rather more optimistic. A parade of travelling bards and chroniclers of Bretonnian heroism have convinced him of his sometimes-homeland’s bravery in the face of the undead hordes. Their discussion became rather fraught, and ended with Saltzpyre in the dunny-pit. And no, that’s not a charming local euphemism.

Anyhow, despite the dousing, Saltzpyre still persists in riling our Grail Knight. So, my cadaverous would-be suitor, tell me truthfully - how fares Bretonnia? No bravado and posturing. I must have the truth. But for the love of whatever unholy spirit you pray to, please send no more poetry. At my time of life I can witness a limited dose of catastrophic humiliation before it becomes lethal.

Reluctantly yours,

Olesya

P.S. Do NOT eat the raven! I should have put this at the opening of my letter… If I find you have done so I will be most displeased. You know I am fond of winged creatures.