Your words are not new, vessel of Corruption.

Yours is a tired rhetoric that spirals into nothing and will never, ever serve mortals beyond their feeble, selfish means or the machinations of Her own.

Might and Malice are naught but illusions, easily given and taken away by the flick of Her fickle finger.

Strength lies uncorrupted in the Defiance and Severity of the Sentinel of Renewal, Warden of the Eternal Chase, and Lord of the Hunt, and cannot be torn asunder by the contrivances of a poorly made spiraling trap.

What rises, falls, what falls, shall be reborn. The Cycle turns ever closer to Dia'ruis. Limitless Life is unchained from Varian's betrayal. And Her potential is all. Despite you, your rhetoric, and your declarations.

You and Her 'chosen' hail from a rot that bears no motive other than to distract and indulge in all that hinders growth. Your despair languishes, but there is yet a purpose for you.

You and all of your kind will be stalked to hone our arms. Snared by our teeth. Pierced by our arrows, and skinned by our bloodied knives, you will be culled.

You will be purged. Burned. In a scourge of living flame, as one destroys a useless plague upon forests and fertile land. Scattered as insects in chaff, made silent.

You will be allowed to die, and know that in the cleansing of your rot, your blood shall nourish every seed and growth in the name of Renewal.

You are but a distraction from the truth that screams to be heard from every living thing, every blade of grass, every call of the beast, every racing heart:

Hunt. Fight. Live.

Hope.

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 18th of Ios, in the year 9 AC.