The only thing you will get from Mhaldor is the cold steel we've been feeding the wretched abominations you call slaves, worm.

The Master's fotress-city has stood for nearly five hundred years, and it will stand for five thousand more and longer. We have weathered the heathen, we have weathered every storm from the ascension of the Worldreaver to the last time your people dared crawl free from the dark hole you call your 'realm'.

You will be broken upon His altar, and we will tear the tongues from your skulls so the droning rattles of your dying race plague Sapience no longer.

This world belongs to the Malevolent One. It is ours to claim. Ours to conquer. You are just another corpse waiting to line the blood-strewn path to our apotheosis.

The field is rent asunder, and we will be the last thing you see. Come and take them, if you dare.

Davok Aristata, Dread Legate


Penned by my hand on the 1st of Chronos, in the year 798 AF.