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Dearest Iora,
This will never reach you. None of my letters will. But writing helps me cope with having joined the Legion. For all the death I have already seen, there are wonders down here, and I wish you could see them. When it's quiet, there are still hints of what the Deep Roads used to be. Right now, I'm sitting under the crumbling statue of a Paragon. I asked Ansa if she knew who it was, but the face is cracked. I like to think it's Endrin Stonehammer or Moroc the Maul, though I know you favor Astyth the Grey.
Back home, I never cared about history. Remember old Osteg shouting about Orzammar's former glory? Naming thaigs he'd never visited and people he'd only read about? I laughed at him. But down here, seeing what we've lost... These are more than roads, Iora. They connected our empire, let our culture flourish. The Stone accepted us, and we lived and moved within her. Now we cling to her like someone drowning.
Forgive me. All my letters end the same.