|Image Source: http://kashivan.deviantart.com/art/Tyrant-of-an-Empty-Land-561939476|
My Dearest Lyrinae,
Truly the south is one vast wasteland of ice, snow and the most bitter cold. I am reminded of the vastness of Matheunis or Kataru, though even Matheunis seemed warm by comparison, and Kataru's grasses relieved the eye in the way that the endless snow never can.
I am chilled to my very bones, and even the liberal use of my esoteries seem unable to restore warmth to my flesh. Would that I could have your touch to warm me. I shall keep you in my mind as I continue south, for even if my flesh freezes my spirit will be warm just from your memory.
This land is not without its inhabitants however, though even those who are friendly to wanderers such as I are alien and cold. Most speak in strange tongues I cannot understand, and those who I manage to communicate with ask questions I cannot answer. Though I know how I got here I do not know where here is, and I, for all my studies, have not one idea how the machine that sent me here functions. Perhaps now we know why none have ever exited the Dome of Mysteries that had entered it.
Worst still is the sky at night; the stars are unlike those of our home, and gone is the moon and its mysterious green belt. Instead three misshapen orbs traverse the sky at various speeds. One is swift, crossing so swiftly the sky that it can pass from horizon to horizon twice in a night. Another hangs ever present over the land, night and day both. Truly I am no longer on the world we call home.
My heart breaks at the thought that I may perish here, unable to gaze upon you once more, and worse still that you may never know my fate. If this message should reach you I may never know, but that the cypher still functions gifts me with hope that you may perhaps hear me say these words once more: You are my most beloved, and my heart will be yours until I perish, be it here in this frozen world, or at some distant future time in the warmth of our shared bed.
With love forevermore,