Your posts reek of pique born in the west. The rancor has hardened like amber around your heart and stilled the flow to your brain leaving you bereft of sense and riddled with aphasia.

Your canvas, deflowered by beasts and men, is the inevitable outcome of one who lacks the ability to subsist in Her realm harmoniously. Your lament at the loss depicts you as you are: Ignorant that all that is borrowed from the earth shall be inevitably returned

Everything dies. We are meant to be pulled into Her Domain. We glory in the passage. In this Cycle we are joined by all Her children, who you histrionically assign mortal qualities to as though they are interchangeable with us. The double entendre fails to reach the wider audience of these boards.

You speak of times long past and vengeance, ignoring that our motivation today lies in recognition of the debt mortality owes to Her. Our predatorial advance is an agreement to pay it, absorbing a portion on behalf of those lacking contrition, such as yourself.

Behold the senility of the Emissary. Doddering along in both acuity and appearance, she leans her gnarled staff into the earth and crashes down while attempting to cast a spell over the minds of those who have already given themselves over to more feral instincts, which easily sniff out the stench of her yet red-misted heart.

TV


Penned by my hand on the 4th of Lupar, in the year 888 AF.