The letter on the Dame Goltbred's desk had been folded once and sealed with simple wax that held no family crest. She'd read it twice already this morning, working through its non-specific meanings easily enough. But she was here after dinner again, feeling just a bit lonely with her husband gone away to the Exclave… so her fingers traced the edge of the paper with some melancholy before picking it up one more time as if something was missed between the lines.
/ Yatrel,
We hope this letter finds you well. Been collaborating on a treatment method that shows promise for the lingering problems. Have ran one successful experiment with intentional… corruption, on a cultivator. My husband is a saint.
However, we need a willing mortal patient for a proper trial. Someone who understands the experimental nature and accepts the risks. We'd require privacy and discretion, as failure would reflect poorly on future efforts that might otherwise help many.
