Dearest Cephandrius,

You might actually see this, you tricky bastard.
 
What am I supposed to do now? Part of me wants to cut a swath of blood and vengeance across the desert, and another wants only to run home and hide in Father's arms until the world is less cruel. Perhaps it is folly to believe that I can bring about the downfall of such a powerful, evil man. But how could I live with myself if I didn't try? I want to be the one to dig in the knife, to watch the light leave his eyes. When did I become so cruel? Cephandrius, I tortured someone. And I almost killed her, too--while she was helpless and bound in chains. How much is too much? How will I know if I cross the line? Or is it, as my mind tells me, that they all deserve it? My companions are no help whatsoever. The gnome is so simplistic in his worldview that I can hardly refrain from shaking him. It gives me migraines, watching him lecture people while I silently struggle for my soul.
 
I promised Father I would come back alive. I ask you, my dear friend, because I don't know what else to do: is there a way to come back still myself? Or is it too late for this flayed, mangled mess of a child?
 
You always did tend to turn up at the strangest times, and I pray you will again. I need you.