Crusader,

I must admit that it amuses me to see you stand there with your righteous proclamations, your hollow faith. You claim to champion liberation, yet you yourself bear the mark of submission and a token reminder of your own vulnerability. You speak of slavers and murderers, pointing your prosthetics at Bloodloch. But what you fail to understand is that real strength and power are the true measures of worth in this world. How ironic that you, who claim to champion freedom, bear a constant reminder of your limitations.

Your words may echo with the fervent cries of the righteous, but they fall upon deaf ears here in the Empire. The Age of Dawn, as you envision it, is but a paltry illusion, a mirage born from the minds of the weak who cling to their naive ideals. While you gaze at the glaring sun, blinding yourselves to simple truths, we stand rooted in the majesty of the Blood and war. We offer no false promises of a utopia, for such illusions are the domain of foolish dreamers. Instead, we advocate for the strength and resilience that comes from embracing the full spectrum of eternity.

In Bloodloch, we embrace our tyranny. We make no apologies for it, for through this iron grip, we shape our own destinies. We do not hide behind illusions of righteousness or cling to the false promises of a distant sun. No, we revel in the power of the Blood and undeath. Bask in the crucible of war and malice. We are unyielding, unapologetic, and relentless in our pursuit of strength, for we understand the realities of our world: the strong prevail, and the weak are left to wither in the shadows of their own insignificance.

March forth on your futile crusade, raise your banner high, and proclaim your hollow truths under your wretched sun. But know that in the end, it is power and strength that endures. The Empire will persist and stand unyielding, while your self-righteous cause fades into obscurity.

The sun never rises on the Empire.

Penned by my hand on Quensday, the 18th of Chakros, in the year 510 MA.