Aros,

Easily can I see why you would think that a single battle would determine the victory of an entire city still plagued by the mewling cries of its cowering citizens, with only four lone souls willing to fight for its ideals.

Ah, but what ideals are we speaking of? I always forget that the pride of the North is easily sold away by honeyed words between politicians. A Senator's eternal death is worth no more than a promise to further understand each other and cooperate in matters of ylem, after all, and the transgressions that would have ended in the destruction of Spinesreach instead of a celebrated holiday you call 'Cogswatch' is swept under the rug, a matter you must naturally forgive of your Duirani masters.

The wrath you declare so proudly from Spinesreach is akin to a dog barking up at a tree it is leashed to.

The Empire will never know peace and has never known it as we seek the conquest that we are born to march towards. Continue to bring forth your hoplites, and consign them to death, but watch as we desecrate the tributes their deaths are meant to be and damn them instead to serve as undead thralls at our beck and call.

Brandish your pitchforks and fling us your curses. Let your indignant screams rise to a fevered pitch. Slave or former slave, there is only one route for you: surrender or never again know the comforts of your city streets.

I am,
Tyrant Elene Arcan-Tetzauh

Penned by my hand on Quensday, the 14th of Lanosian, in the year 505 MA.