Letter to Davynn

Somewhere in the bottom of Xylund’s pack, underneath the torn leaves of narcotic plants and the loose dragonchess pieces, beneath the screws and springs and bits of deconstructed automata, deeper even than the half-completed sketch of Corrin riding bear-formed Annie into battle, can be found a crumpled wad of paper on which is written the following:
 
Davynn.
 
First of all, don’t get the wrong idea. This isn’t an apology. Wipe that smirk off your face!
 
But there’s no denying that you saved our collective ass back there. Credit where credit’s due.
 
And just in general lately, you’ve really been pulling your weight. And I’m not just saying that cuz I think Featherstone would make a cool base of operations, although obviously it would. You can think the worst of me if you want, that I’m just buttering you up for some of that sweet, sweet haunted manor action. Doubt I’ve given you much reason to think differently.
 
But you stood your ground in our battle with Beamo the Grey, or whatever his name was, you know, that dude who fried our (well, your) friends friends friends. And you didn’t back down during the fight with your undead aunt. And today, if you hadn’t let the sunshine in, we’d all be mist food. No question. You’ve come a long way since the days of hiding under tables and squawking like a big ol’ chicken.
 
Remember when you came down that chimney as Future Davynn, all grizzled and world weary and cool? I figured that must be Davynn from an Alternate, Even-More-Than-Usual-Dystopian Future cuz I couldn’t envision how the potato boy I’d been travelling with and rolling my eyes at for weeks would ever radiate such quiet confidence and grim competence. Honestly, in those days, every week that passed without you dying was a surprise. Not always a pleasant one, to be perfectly frank.
 
But now I can see it. You ARE the tuber from which Future Davynn might one day grow. Potato boy is becoming potato man.
 
Even if we all die tomorrow, even if what causes our deaths is the fact that you threw the fire-caster to Ulric WITHIN SECONDS of me giving it to you
 
The sentence disintegrates into a ball of enraged scribbling before it continues.
 
even so, if Grennan asked, I’d still say that I’m proud to have fought alongside you.
 
…
 
Well, maybe not if that EXACT situation came to pass, but anything short of that, yeah, the sentiment holds.
 
So here’s a picture of Snoffunfx (never Brisket) running wild and noble and free to serve as your inspiration on the long road ahead. Channel the sleekness of his muscular form as you shed your disfiguring tubrosities! Scales > warts!
 
A surprisingly accomplished and subtly shaded drawing of a horse galloping across a field, mane streaming in the wind.
 
I lied. It’s not Snoffunfx. The horse is you, buddy. The horse was inside you all along.
 
Not in a sexual way. Get your mind out of the gutter, Davynn!
 
Semi- or demi- or quasi-sincerely,
 
Xylund
 
PS. I’m a LITTLE disappointed that your first impulse was to toss the fire-caster to Ulric, but there was a lot going on at the time so maybe you got flustered. Forgive and forget. Well, more forget than forgive, probably. Eventually.
 
PPS. Similarly, I understand that you were rattled and there were loud noises coming from everywhere, but just as a general rule, FYI, if you ever find yourself holding a cleaver to a gnome lady’s neck, you’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere. That is not the path to Future Davynn.