Empire of Nothin Pittin Much,

May we never know peace used to mean something. I knew folks that did, and still do, feel that to their very bones. Every wound taken as a blessing, every battle fought a sermon. To any who yet feel the call of war in their blood, you lot are a disgrace.

Your first three hundred troops died to four Spireans. Four. You know what happened when four Spireans showed up at Bloodloch's gates? Irra quit the militia. Your spymaster Aren skulked about in phase shouting about how good he was at running away from fighting, and the rest of your soldiers walked out to die one by one.

Of your Thronekeepers, only Paxe put her blade to the test. Of your ministers, nearly all of them took to their bedrooms to hide. Those who claim to stalk the night with fangs bared, or to tread on blood-soaked earth, cowering beneath their beds like children fearing the parent's hand.

What you could not, WOULD NOT, attempt with two other cities at your beck and call, we achieved with half of our militia. Never again call yourselves an empire of war, an empire built on hardship and adversity.

You're children. You're quitters. You're cowards and cretins. You're a speck of shit under the Spirean boot. Reap what you deserve.

Ever His,

Whirran Arcan-Tetzauh

Viceroy

Penned by my hand on Closday, the 2nd of Omeian, in the year 5 AC.