Dear Jhui:

"Cyrene you are next," you said. That was all the explanation you offered our city before you made good your threat of violence and destruction. We were worthy of neither reason nor diatribe, it seems, buy only four simple words. "Cyrene you are next."

As I gaze upon the ruins of Centre Crossing, I find myself mulling over the meaning of your words. Were we attacked because we share Targossas' views and machinations? After all, you had quite a bit to say about the newly-formed Dawnspear. But, no, I thought to myself, that couldn't be it. Not only has Cyrene and Targossas suffered from tension in recent years, but it is abundantly clear that our values lie in different directions. Perhaps you were associating us with Shallam-that-was, Ashtan's former nemesis? It is a mistake frequently made as Targossas seeks to establish itself as not only a reborn city, but one different from Shallam in many ways. Yet, no--this did not seem accurate either.

I thought and I thought and I thought. In time, the answer came to me, and with it a rapidly rising fury. Jhui, you are a bully.

It saddens me to see the Staff of Nicator borne by one such as you. Upon receiving the Staff, your first actions were to smite those who opposed you in the Games. You postured and boasted, blustered and bragged, and then descended upon the cities you perceived as opposition with all the righteous smugness of a spoiled child. You despoil the honourable nature of the Championship Games with your poor sportsmanship, and you taint the Staff, and the very name of Nicator, with your exasperating actions.

That being said, this one cannot say that you did not earn the Staff fair and square. Indeed, it was through your own might and cleverness that you overcame your adversaries and claimed the Staff as your prize. Shame on you, then, for turning around and disgracing your own efforts by lashing out at your competitors long after the Games have ended, and for what? Nothing more than daring to compete against you. Jhui, you may deserve the Staff for all your accomplishments, but it certainly does not deserve you.

Perhaps my words sting you. Perhaps they fall on deaf ears. Perhaps they amuse you. Regardless of your reaction I will say this: if you wish, then come at me. Come, then, at the Heart of the Vashnars. I, for one, defy you and all that you are. Let every drop of blood you spill here in the power-drunk throes of your childish tantrums stand as a testament of your own crippling inferiority in the face of a greater, gentler power. Let the perseverance and solidarity of Cyrene stand firm in the face of your meaningless show of might, and expose you for what you are--nothing more than a bully with a big stick.

And when you are finally tired of your foolish games, may clarity come upon and keep you, so that you might just mature a little.

Penned by my hand on the 10th of Chronos, in the year 651 AF.