A little man, wearing the mask of a dragon, wielding a brummagem blade.
Little pet, chained to a leash.

Tell me, Little Pet, how fast do you sit when She commands?
I wager before the command leaves Her lips.

Does holding the leash of these little creatures make you feel big?
Does it make you forget, Pet, how we beat you back before?

You are nothing. You are King of Slaves, Pontiff of the Empty, Baron of the Dirt.
You creep toward your doom, sending this swath of dust toward the greatest force history has ever known.

And you hide behind a pile of umbral meat, too afraid to stand in the vanguard.

I know the smell of weakness. Of fear.

You REEK.

Come, if you dare, Murgraxis, flightless dragon.
Come, if you're a fool, Murgraxis, slave to your betters.
Come, if you are ready to die, Murgraxis.

Bring your sword, if it comforts you.
I'll relish cutting it from your aphotic fingers.

Bring your army.
I'll relish cutting them down before your very eyes.

Bring your life.
I'll relish kicking it back to the hell you call home.

Come, Murgraxis, and face your end at the blades of the Carnifex.

Come, little pet; show us what a good boy you are.

We're waiting.

We're waiting to finish what Severn started.

Penned by my hand on Kinsday, the 4th of Severin, in the year 504 MA.