Spinesreach,

It's admiral that you put forward the facade of unity in the face of utter devastation, but one on the outside is left to wonder: where is your illustrious Chair?

Where is the man who would claim the work of his citizens as his own in order to sate his own vanity?

Where is the man who would claim the work of a God as his own to inflate his self-worth?

Where is the pretender, the one who would play at manipulating both you and the world for his own pride?


So willfully does he throw you on the knives of Bloodloch, while hiding from the Stinkh he made.

You die, are harangued, and are denied peace by the acts of a mediocre, milquetoast, weakwilled man--one who aspires to greatness but lacks the spine to shoulder responsibility when it comes calling.

How long before you realize the real cause of your woes is this fearful man? How long until you demand his head on a pike?

Your interests and those of Bloodloch are more aligned than you might think.

Step aside, set down your arms, and allow us to pluck this little man from his hiding hole and dole out the consequences he so intrepidly decided should be yours to bear. And if there's a smart woman among you, you'll remove him from leadership, and your fair city, entirely.

Throw him to us, so that you might know peace once again.

Regards,
Lord Tetchta V. Mesis,
The Nine-Fingered Tick

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 17th of Niuran, in the year 505 MA.