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A parchment is put on board of Runewick.

"I Clive Seger have been wrestling with the consequences of actions that have not been my own, I committed a transgression but not of my own will, A betrayal of trust that may result in significant harm to others, I feel a deep sense of remorse and shame whenever I remember their faces, their kindness, and the trust I violated, Even though forgiveness from them may be impossible, but a part of me still hopes for some form of closure.

While I can never truly undo what I have done, Guided by Mister Bernie Bottoms and desperate to find some semblance of peace, I seeks absolution.
I hope my visit of old monuments will reveal a path to healing and reconciliation.


The sun bleeds orange on Cadomyr's breast,
A desert vast, where hope finds little rest.
Sand whispers tales of empires turned to dust,
Of bones bleached white, and ancient, broken trust.
The wind, a mournful dirge, sings low and deep,
Across the dunes, where secrets lie asleep.
Cadomyr's heart, a furnace burning bright,
A lonely vigil in the endless light.

Then down, far down, to Galmair's shadowed veins,
Where refuse flows and darkness ever reigns.
The sewers twist, a labyrinth of grime,
A festering wound, devoured slowly by time.
Each dripping pipe, a mournful, echoing sigh,
Reflecting the grey grime of the city sky.
Lost souls reside within this fetid maze,
Condemned to wander through their hopeless days.

But lift your gaze, beyond the city's stench,
To Runewick's wood, a vibrant, verdant trench.
Where ancient trees stand sentinel and tall,
And sunlight dappled, paints the forest wall.
Runes carved deep, in bark of ancient oak,
Whisper of magic, in a hushed bespoke.
The rustling leaves, a symphony untold,
A haven green, from stories bought and sold.

From burning waste to shadows deep and grim,
To ancient wisdom, on the forest limb,
Cadomyr's heat, Galmair's despairing plight,
Runewick's solace, bathed in emerald light.
A tapestry woven, of hardship, loss, and grace,
Three landscapes bound, in time and space.
"

To whom it may concern,

Yes, this day on the 8th of Olos, year 75, under my supervision as an elder priest of Ronagan, I have supervised the penitent and humble Clive Seger through all three temples within each city as prescribed by the sentence of the Archmage as punishment to atone for his transgressions.

Unbeknownst to many, an elder priest of Ronagan is one of my many identities I do not advertise in public. Allow me to explain. Not all merchants worship Irmorom, and not all Halflings worship Oldra, as I took my vows long ago in the old land of Gobaith believing a scrupulous and wise merchant wouldn't simply craft his wares as Irmorom advises, but would know his foes and friends through the knowledge of Ronagan. Who are the foes of Merchants? Thieves, smugglers, rogues and masterminds of course! Knowing their ways not only allows you to be wary of their intentions and ways, but also use them to procure rare and unique objects otherwise impossible to obtain. And I have used these connections to obtain much over the decades.

I do not take the duties of priesthood lightly, but did this when I heard of young Clive Seger's plight, and with due deliberation and prayer in the hopes that his deeds and humility would save a worthy wretch for the future benefit of Runewick and Illarion. Please be merciful and allow his deeds to atone for his crimes.

Respectfully,
~ Patrician Bernie Bottoms, also Elder priest of Ronagan