Your guild is dying. I must wonder, in such a time, is this how a dying guild's guildmaster ought to occupy herself? Writing post after frivolous post to the newsboards? I would think you ought to consider how to keep the Ascendril from shriveling up like a raisin.

Yet, I am torn. As dull as I find your grandiloquent, stultiloquential fiddle-faddle, I rather enjoy picturing you as the captain of some doomed vessel: you sit angrily writing letters to your ship's builders despite the obvious fact that - whether the ship is sinking due to their shoddy workmanship or your poor sailing - they have your gold, they do not care about your demise, and even if they did care, their sentiments would not help you in the slightest. I find myself, therefore, mixing metaphors and fanning the flame. I make no secret of my desires; I would be glad to see the lighthouse burn.

Now I eagerly await your next move. Will you respond to me, furthering your vain struggle against inevitability? Or will you ignore me, and thus tacitly acknowledge the truth of what I say?

Either way: best wishes to you in your knowing or unknowing pursuit of the Ascendril's destruction.

Sincerely,
Inquisitor Vyxsis Qizzeke, Atele wo Oro Du

Penned by my hand on Kinsday, the 12th of Chakros, in the year 468 MA.