Lupa's Letters: February 22nd, 1884

Dearest Jessica

The town is in turmoil. We received news this morning that our armies were decimated overnight, and that the invasion was rapidly encroaching the outer settlements. I found my Mother sobbing in a frightful manner, and my father was nowhere to be seen. Through all of this, my Mother has remained amicable and in high spirit; to see such a fit of intense despair in her devoured any hope I may have held, and I fought viciously to keep my own tears at bay. I attempted to soothe her, but what could I say? To assure her of our safety would be foolish, and would certainly do more harm than good. To tell her I would fight would only worsen her ailing mind. What consolation could I possibly offer her, when deep within me, I knew she was to give in? To sob? To be afraid?
I discovered my Father not long after, amidst a large crowd gathered in the town square. A man stood high upon those huge stone steps, addressing the mass in a voice that sounded fearful, yet oddly brave. He spoke of a militia, and urged those present to “Stand tall, stand proud and stand united”. I both despised and adored the man. Certainly, he was sending these people to their demise. As you will rightly remember, our town is not known for the warriors it produces, and many of the citizens who remain are simply those too old, too ill or too weak to leave. Yet I saw something in his words, a determination that could be quashed by neither man nor god. And then I remembered my father, and his intentions became all to clear. Tonight at the evening meal, I found myself unable to hold back my grief. I wrapped my arms around him and sobbed uncontrollably into his chest, the fear bursting forth like a cannonball from a cannon. I realised suddenly that there was a very real possibility that I would never see my family alive after tonight, and the pain hit with such force that I felt as though my heart had been ripped from its place in my chest and propelled across the room.
I miss you dearly. I write this message in the hopes that I shall live to see dawnbreak and send it to you. Please, if you receive this, come home. We need you desperately.

Yours sincerely.
Lupa.