Brother George
It is as I feared. London has fallen. Thrice I have written to you, begging your aid. Thrice you have responded - with silence. And yet I write again, so desperate my need, so few my options. I need you, London needs you. You would say it is too great of a task. Or that it is not yet time to strike. Patience, you would counsel. But whilst you wait, the Templars consolidate their power. They have chosen a Grand Master so ruthless, so thorough, one might think Reginald Birch, himself, had returned. His name is Crawford Starrick. And he intends to rule the world. There is no aspect of society he does not control. No industry that escapes his grim touch. By day it is corrupt merchants and venel politicians who hold court. Come night, a viscious street gang known as the Blighters strikes terror in the hearts of all. There is no business untainted by his poison. No person unexploited - be it by duplicity or force. Our enemy has designs on the highest office of them all. And so as you look inward - and dare I say it - afraid - Crawford Starrick's ambition is fixed on the beyond. To kingdoms and continents as yet unconquered. Though not for long. For he knows - as I have warned you -time and time again - whosoever controls London, controls the world.
Henry Green