My dear, dear Jesters. Members of the noble Carnivalis Institute of
Jestering. I feel that I must say something to you, just out of the
kindness of my heart. It's not like it will make much difference, since
you all never had a fighting chance, but I will feel myself neglectful
of my civic duty if I did not at least offer this teeny bit of advice.

It's your theme. There is... a rumor floating around the continent about
what it is. I won't mention it here, in case there are three or four
people who have not heard, but... my dear, dear friends. It's sad.
Honestly. And I love all of you far too much as fellow brethren and
sistren of Sapience not to say anything about it, even if your presence
in this competition wasn't laughable no matter what you did. I feel
you've been misled by your own thoughts, and I am just going to set you
straight once and for all, sweet merrymakers of the realm.

So here shall I set you straight. I realize, as we all do, that your
Patron is the God of Luck. But this does not mean you should fail to put
forth effort or talent, choosing instead to layabout on your sacks of
mice and barrels of milk and trust in that fact alone to help you win
(by the way, you won't. I just want this to be clear). Ours is the Lord
of the Skies. But this does not mean that instead of working for our
victory (not that we need to, but for appearances' sake) we will lay
back in the grass, hoping that the winds, clouds and rain will wash our
competition (Heehee! Competition! yeah ri-- oops... sorry) away.

The least you all, my dear riders of balloons, could do is put forth
enough effort to cause the rest of us to laugh. Like the Spiritwalkers.

In friendship and a teeny bit of good-natured pity,

Oenone Atreide
The Sylvanic Fellowship

P.S. Translation of this post into thug gangster slang for the benefit
of the Ty Beirdd available upon request.

Penned by my hand on the 21st of Glacian, in the year 433 AF.