Your name is more than apt. What remains in service to the Underking is the merest trace. The merest trace of purpose. The merest trace of relevance. The merest trace of competence. You squall alike to a babe about loyalty and staunch effort, all the while when a mere twenty cultists march, you call for aid to the world at large. You beg the help of Spireans. When you require information and clarification, who do you ask? You deride Duiran for not being able to provide, a stance I must wholly agree with considering their fall to levels of such impotence, and yet who do you turn to? Me. A Spirean.

I am damned for eternity. My place in the grove of heroes is revoked. My word is as nothing to Your king, and yet I withhold my hand. Perhaps out of pitty, to see Him represented by such a pitiful remnant. Perhaps because in my own pitiful way, I yet hold Him in esteem. Whatever the reason, you test my patience yet again.

You call out my wife. You call out my comrades. You call out the Lord. We do the Lord's work, and we have rendered unto Him a strengthening as has only been seen by Varian himself. Until you can claim but a fraction of the same, seal your lips and still your quill, or I will do it for you.

Ever His,

Whirran Arcan-Tetzauh

High Priest

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 17th of Lexadian, in the year 3 AC.