I find your replacement for the Moon's piss-poor attempt to sow the seeds of strife humourous, though distracting from the truth. It is a simple matter to attend. Unfortunately, we are both well aware that the one truth Beithir understands is that you will be ripped apart limb from limb, screaming as the steam from your still-warm entrails rises into the air above Iomall.

We find, though, that in our new home as well as our last, Man continues to value truth above all things. Therefore, I shall clarify the words of an idiot beast:

We hate you.

You helped us remember many things, heart: to care, to love, to feel the sting of a shattered promise. No promises among mortals mean anything. There was never a home for us to return to.

You watched as the vines poured forth, overtaking all. You felt what we felt when the thorns flayed the flesh from our body. Do you remember, heart? Your hands around the child's throat, gasping for the air you stole from his lungs.

You fought with us: sword to sword, fist to fist. We watched as your prowess on the battlefield rose alongside ours, strike by strike and blow by blow. We strove to elevate ourselves above all others, standing together against a countless army under a blood-red moon. But then we looked behind us.

As we continued down that path of progress, of growth and discovery, we saw you were no longer there. You had stopped, just for a rest. Just for a day. But that day became a month, and a month became a year, and a year became a decade. We watched as your skills dulled and your will of iron bent to your inconsolable rage. At some point along our journey, you gave up. Not on us, not on Beithir, but on yourself.

While I wish you the best of luck, I temper my expectations and think you ought to, too. It is true that Man is capable of greatness, but we know not all will achieve it. Given your lacklustre trajectory, perhaps the mantle of Seneschal will inspire more greatness than you currently seem capable of. The Court of Shadows deserves nothing but the best. Unfortunate, then, that they got you.

I will see your corpse splayed open at Beithir's feet,

Rital Beo, Quert-Righinn of Beithir


Penned by my hand on the 1st of Phaestian, in the year 872 AF.