To Djeir, and the Djeirani:

I'mma admito right from the start I aint Djeinari. I aint fully understand all the complicated rules that both bind and separate y'all. I've heard some 'bout it, but mostly I just think yer theatre is wonderful and yer city very pretty. I guess it probably aint perfect. But no place is perfect. That I have learned in my travels ever since I left 'em caravans I grew up in. Little by little, ya make the place fit ya, or ya make yerself fit the place, or leave and try elsewhere.

There aint no shame in that, I reckon.'

What I know, tho', is what it means to lose yer home. The home of yer people. The home that is yer home even if ya aint live in it. The Aalen was lost before I was ever born, and still my ma and my pa, 'em siblings, and family, every other Tsol'aa I have ever known, felt it deep in their gut. This many years since the Bloom, and the Tsol aint even close to having a home again, to having a place, and a self to go along with it.

This woman who counts herself among the greatest of yer people would condemn ya to this fate, to the loss of all y'all cherish, the good and the bad, them hopes and despairs that bind ya as one, all for the possibility of some kinda treasure for the place's she chosen as hers, them spires in the north.

And thats fine too, I figure. Like I said, aint no shame in leaving.

Just, all she says and all she asks, is with her own purpose in mind. It aint for Djeir or her people. Them she's already sold to the dead that would kill y'all. I guess ya can all figure if thats really what the greatest among ya aspire to.

Think of that, maybe, ye who stay and fight for yer city and yer theatre and yer history.

Think of that, too, ye who left, who think it aint matter because ya aint live there. Ya aint no windblown thing, yet, and I figure most of ya aint gonna like it if ya were.


Earnestly,
Myr.

Penned by my hand on Gosday, the 19th of Haernos, in the year 2 AC.