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Lass,
I have half a mind to crumple this letter and toss it to the skeevers in the ratway. Word’s reached us that you’ve been darting all over Skyrim, pockets heavier with every passing day. Always collecting, eh? I hope you're not getting sloppy out there. Skyrim’s not forgiving to those who slip. Wouldn’t want to lose you again.
To be honest, I’m not even sure why I bother with these letters. Do they reach you? Do you even read them? Feels like I’m writing to shadows most nights. Maybe that’s the point—talking to you like this makes it easier to imagine you’re still here. Makes me think that any minute now, you’ll stroll into the Flagon, pour a Honningbrew, and hit me with that bloody smile of yours.
The truth is, I miss you. And not just for the jobs you pull or the way your name turns heads when it’s mentioned in whispers. You made this wretched den feel like something more than stone walls and hidden doors. And now that you’re gone… it’s quieter. Too quiet.
The others ask after you. Well, Vex doesn’t—not directly—but we both know she’s worried in her own prickly way. Delvin’s grumbling more than usual, says we’ve lost our edge without you around. I told him he’s just bitter because you’ve always pulled the best jobs. He didn’t argue.
Wherever you are—Skyrim, Solstheim or Oblivion itself—I hope whatever you're chasing is worth it. You’ve made enemies who'd sink a dagger between your ribs without a second thought. Watch your back, lass. Or better yet, come home. There’s always a place for you here.
Yours,
Brynjolf