Pitiful whelp,

You are as deluded as I feared. As you stand in empty cities, villages, and Hashan, you have cocooned yourself in a twisted belief of western superiority.

Sadly for you, the refulgence of the Light is without mercy in tearing away the lies you tell yourself. Sadly for you, the truth of Mhaldorian strength has been laid bare to all.

Your city cowers at the mercy of my soldiers, subject to our whims on whether you might even retaliate against our raids when we have all turned in for the night. At dawn, we all rise safely knowing that the very sight of eastern resistance is enough to cause your blood to run cold and to see you run screaming back to your guardhouse.

Though I will see Evil crushed, it pains me to see what you have made of Wulfen's legacy. You are a fool, and your city will wither and die under your wretched, misguided leadership.

However, you are right in one thing: there are no soldiers quite like those of the east. Forged in Righteous Fire and guided by Light, the warriors of Good are without equal in these lands.

In Targossas, though, we are not here to tell stories. We will trust to history to paint its heroes and villains, and it is to history that you and yours will be consigned, naught but a footnote in the tales of equally blind but far greater leaders than you could ever hope to be.

So carry on, Ruth. Cling to your self-deception while you can.

Your reckoning is coming soon.


In Their name,

Silas Maynard de l'Evanoir
Dawnlord of Targossas

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Phaestian, in the year 630 AF.