The warm, evening breeze of the Farah'deen desert entered his tent unannounced and uninvited, but not unwelcomed. It was a pleasant sensation as opposed to the cold anxiety that filled his head. He let the quill fall from his hand as he leaned back in the chair at his desk, folding his arms and staring into the space on the floor in front of him in contemplation.
He knew that things were bad back at home, but what he had initially perceived as a contained power struggle between two corrupt and greedy men, had now widened to engulf them all, reaching even far across the oceans to the east, to the tent in which he now sat.
"All that I wanted to do was fight this bloody Songaskian war," he muttered in annoyance to a cluster of broken pistachio shells that lay in a mug at a far end of his desk. "Was that too much to ask?"
Pistachios. His favourite little Farah'deen snack. However, they didn't respond to his question.
He rubbed his face and sat up straighter, leaning forward to again pick up his quill. He dipped the end in the ink pot, then lifted it over a blank piece of parchment, and finally, he began to write.
To my stewards, the household's surplus tax payments are to be decreased...
And so it would likely begin.
@darkarely @Miss_Confined @TyrolleanEagle @LumosJared
