Residents of Luceti-

I am Sigmund. It is possible that some of you may recognize the name. To those I have not yet contacted, I apologize. The circumstances of my return have been less than ideal.

It has come to my attention that there are those here lacking in basic self-defense. This is a situation that must be remedied. For those interested, I am willing to share my knowledge of swordsmanship. If there is enough response, I will organize lessons. If not, I am still capable of teaching a few apprentices.

Be aware, though, that I will expect dedication and commitment, and will not tolerate foolery. Battles are not games for children to play at.

If I do not respond immediately, be patient. I've other business to attend to.

[And in his bedroom, that other business is... writing. A great deal of writing, in fact, on loose paper and interspersed with hurried sketches. The stacks of paper are starting to grow large and messy, indicating he's been at it for quite some time. To someone who knows Sigmund, the contents would be familiar. An anecdote of his childhood in Halgita here, a sketch of the throne room there; a description of the Cobasna Timberlands and the ships at Zala on one stack, and the next stack over, an account of meeting Balbagan written around a drawing of his ax. It is as if he is feverishly trying to write his entire life down... almost as if he were afraid of forgetting it.

Every so often he pauses and glances at his journal, which he has propped open against a candlestick he stubbornly refuses to get rid of. A few other sheets of paper have been sacrificed for a sort of improvised paper screen between him and the book. Damnable things. If only the ease of communication didn't mean such an affront to privacy.]