'Leaders' of Qor Qogol,


We notice you have been quiet after the advent of the Falsehead's threats, your chosen mouthpiece, the rot-tongued necromancer, spewing maggots wheresoever he goes, but yet not another single voice joins the fray.

Missives have gone unanswered, taunts ignored, the labyrinthe where your false brethren mine and march left as it is save for those few of Varach's playthings left out on the lawn.

As the hungry Dawn states, your figurehead's undead are rendered dead again. The echoing hubris of your proclamations falls flat with but a single puppeteer playing his games. Perhaps you are all his pawns as well?

What say you, hollow city?

Empire that was?

Do you exist or will my new vacation home be all that much easier to settle into once we've excavated your sorry remains?



The Red Tyrant

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 11th of Lexadian, in the year 3 AC.