Hashan has felt my blade long enough. Due to the actions of fools who
wish to deny me the peace I seek, and those who hold childish grudges
against the City of Freedom and its citizens, my gaze turns west towards
the murkish red puddle of ooze which calls itself Mhaldor. While one
Shaman will not tip the scales of war, I hope that when Mhaldor does
fall, I am standing there alongside the rest of Sapience, cheering.

Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Phaestian, in the year 433 AF.