Got this from from Mr Theodor Gylden and I love the message for the simplicity and how the text for me really does read like it could come from the game itself:

"A plain card, the colour of tea and cream. In the center are seven pinpoint stars arranged as in the Septentriones. Above is the name and address of a bookseller in the Bazaar, the author and academic T.E Gylden. Below is a motto: Septentrionem appetimus (translatable as We seek the Seven Stars, or We hunger for the North). Not ominous. Not at all."

bjorntfh wants to help nurse you back to health. (Do you trust them?) "I said stop leaking everywhere. That's just unpleasant."

"Ohhh, *that* one. Look at her sending off calling cards just because her social circle's able to get a bit larger now. This one is a thick card, carefully engraved and somehow shimmeringly reflective in the light of the foyer in your lodgings. It is pristine; she's had new stock made now that the holidays are done. Instead of the logo of a meticulously altered stocking along the left-hand side, she's returned to her usual lorgnette and golden spiked rosary. You cut your fingertip along the knife-sharp edge. _Miss Perative_, it says, and then in smaller type: _Terrifying._ Indeed. Perhaps if she had sent you a rumpled card (stained with lacre, smeared with gloam-foam, matted from a Sacksmas season spent at the bottom of her cunning puzzle-damask reticule)... perhaps, then, you would have tossed it away without a thought. You would have missed her primly printed note: "Forgive my tardiness; the frantic holidays have been such a trial. Perhaps you'll find this card useful from time to time? I would love to hear from you during these quiet weeks before The Feast of the Exceptional Rose.""

"The morning's post brings you a surprise: a tangle of vivid green leaves with three large white buds above them on the point of blossoming, and bare roots clambering out over the pot's edge. "Orchids," the accompanying note begins, in an elegant, practised script, "are extraordinary creatures. Their hardiness and will to survive are hardly matched but in our own race -- cut one back to a tiny nub of itself, and, given sufficient time and an appropriate environment, it will regrow into a specimen as assertive as the one before you now. Her parentage includes a slew of New World species bred with stock from the Elder Continent, a project not only poetic in its ambitions, but necessary to ensure she thrives in our tenebrous conditions. I've applied to the RHS for the appellation Lc. Bright Messenger, pending their acceptance of my paper arguing for the placement of Neath orchids within alliance Cattleya. Care for her with curiosity and joy." A card -- dove-gray paper and deep, indigo-violet ink -- gives an address just this side of the Forgotten Quarter. That night, a flickering glow awakes you. Your new companion has bloomed, white petals shaded with the barest blue-purple, and a huge, rippled lip painted with indigo. Bloomed and caught fire, that is, or, more properly, caught your curtains on fire, because the plant itself remains unharmed within a sheath of pale, white-blue flame. Once you've beaten out the conflagration, a wary inspection confirms your immediate suspicions: the blossoms are marked with Correspondence sigils. Of course they are. "A shroud knit of night and day." "Ravenous secrecy." "The sky will open to you." The University really will sign off on any hare-brained endeavor masquerading as research these days, however eccentric. Or inflammatory."