As war blooms, grim and resolute, between two ziggurats that stand at either end of the world, we witness yet again the creation of martyrs, crying out for the eternal damnation of their enemies, and the resolve of the damned, tapping into reserves of strength they did not know they possessed.

Throughout history, entire generations of Targossians have lost themselves within the fog of the Mountain, hurling themselves against Baelgrim's unforgiving walls to scant avail. Entire legions of Mhaldorians have ground themselves to dust and less upon the edge of the Dawnspear, sanguine stains upon the fields of rich indigo.

And every death keeps Ugrach busy, and every death empowers the Underworld with so much soulbleed. But truly, the fruit of this display of enmity is short-lived: the glory and splendor of the present fade and wilt to the unknown and unyielding veil of uncertainty that obscures our common future. And life goes on, ultimately unchanged.

Here, belligerents, is my proposition.

While the subjugation of a city comes to pass in the scorching heat of tank detonations and the scores of the slain, the extinction of an ideology happens one doubted doctrine and one festering, unanswered question at a time.

To Targossas in the East, who threw down the gauntlet, and to Mhaldor in the West, who accepted the call: I challenge you to a war of words.

I offer you my services as a neutral mediator. And you, East and West, you will unveil your best reasoning, most convincing argumentation, most eloquent calls to action or most moving calls to emotion you can muster to edify all you hold to be true. . . or eschew the truth for carefully crafted artifice.

When this war is concluded, ample blood will have been spilt, but whose faith will reign supreme in the minds of soldiers and Sapients everywhere?

Your words will decide, should you accept.

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Mayan, in the year 831 AF.