Greetings Fiadh,

Word of your deeds travels quietly but noticed, as does the scent of incense from a closed shrine. There are those among us who take note when a mind hungers not just for coin or conquest, but for understanding-when hands reach toward what others deem forbidden or lost.

In these years when the Sea itself seems to have swallowed proud Jhaamdath, the sands and the tides alike whisper of what remains buried. The gods turn their faces, yet the remnants of older hands-Imaskari, Jhaamdathi, and others yet unnamed-still stir beneath the earth.

We watch such stirrings. We are Vigilant, though our true name is reserved for those who pass the Threshold. We to seek and secure that which presupposes petty empires: artifacts, relics, and devices through which knowledge might once again shape the world, rather than destroy it.

You have been observed. And found… intriguing.

Should your path incline toward ours, bring only your wits and a steady heart. Come to the The Gate of Thrice-Fold Smoke on the third night after the new moon. Arrive before the final prayer of evening. Speak no names to the gatekeeper-merely say, “The hour of the azure smoke.”

Seek the Perfumed Canal District where the incense mingles with lotus and sewage. Priadoran opens your eyes to see both sides through the veil of spirits. Gaze upon the River of Shadows and seek passage through the portal.

If your intent is sincere, you shall be admitted. If it is not, you will forget this letter as one forgets a dream before waking.

Until the smoke takes form...