Bloodloch,


So in bed are you with the minions of Chaos and your own egos that you cannot see things clearly.

You are strong, yes. You are far from impervious.

You are loud, but it is nothing more than goading, and we yet stand. War is not won by the biggest bully, no matter your belief. Your cuts are fleeting. You have been repelled, time and again.

The distinction of victory is not in how loud one can be, it is in eloquence, and what follows. You storm our walls, fall beneath our blades, and claim we are lost because we band together.

In the recent months you have been beaten back. You have had measures of success, but we are still standing, and we have driven you from our walls. You have won nothing.



When I left your city, it was not to the sound of marching guards, it was not when my allies and I were tired of falling to defences against our assault. It was to the silence of your defenders, over the corpses of your guards, having chosen to lead the remaining divisions away.

If your numbers were so wonderous, why was I able to be effective as one, as effective or moreso than you are as many?

How we have repulsed your advances, together, my Comrades and I. It will always be so.

Bloodloch, you have heard our response to your ludicrous treaty demands: Freedom in the North.



Perhaps you require a little more perspective:

Even were we injured, impeded as you seem to believe: The blood is already in the water. How long can you fight, before you are wittled so far down that even in victory, a swift breeze might bowl your city over?

Because that is what this war will cost you. You have heard the call of Lenoriel, the song of Seurimas, the rallying cry of the city guard.

To the last drop of blood. To the last sovereign.

We will win, or we will bleed you dry in death, and Freedom will live on.



To the rest of Sapience:

You have heard the call of the Dragon. Respect those who are strong. Grow.

There is Freedom, here, and we will not let it die. There are many that have want or need to believe in something. Believe in this - we may disagree, we may choose different paths, but our fight is the fight for your freedom to do so, as much as it is for us to live our lives OUR way.

If that means something to you, our doors are open.



A free man,

Aros Riahl,
the White Rose
Strategos

Penned by my hand on Quensday, the 13th of Niuran, in the year 505 MA.