Hello m'dears,

I am composing this from the airport, where I await my flight to Sin
City. Soon, I'll be joining Jeremy Saunders (the president of IRE),
Tecton, Valnurana, and other esteemed personages of the Iron Realms for
our annual retreat, where we will plot, scheme, and probably at some
point somebody will end up passed out in the suite's bathtub.
(*cough*Hermes*cough*)

On Monday, we shall return refreshed and revitalized (and possibly
missing a liver or two) to better weave and mend the fabric of Achaea.
Until that time, we leave you in the quite capable hands of the Divine
who have elected to remain behind this year. Please be gentle. If I come
back and find half the Garden curled up into whimpering balls, lightning
bolts will fly.

Penned by My hand on the 12th of Aeguary, in the year 516 AF.