My dear sister, Ariettie Jinx

I see many things as I sit here within the Sactum of the Tyrannus,
perched atop this glorious city upon this glorious island, pen in hand.
I see Mhaldorian and Ashtani warriors lay waste to your guardsmen and
your troubadours. I see the City of Light scurry up the Vashnars in
their futile efforts to lead and carry out your defense. I watch on
still as tribes of ithmian men make the journey southwestward, spear in
hand, to meet their Anachaine kin who somewhat inexplicably call the
defiled grave of Propasia home.

All of these things, sister. I see dignity discarded, religious Orders
and doctrines cheapened and abandoned - but there is one thing that
truly is still missing from my fine view of this morally desecrated
land; I cannot see your war.

I was promised a war, and yet I watch as hours become days and days
become months - months during which the strongest slight upon a
Mhaldorian citizen outside of Cyrene's walls is the brief lash of a
lycopod.

I invite you, my elder sister, to make true your promise. If your own
citizens are truly unable, take what little standing you have left and
approach the Anachaine general upon whom the soldiers of the East have
long relied. Together we can pray that he and his continue to bury the
history between you like so many forests, that he may lead your forces
to Mhaldor's gates in a beautiful union of broken ideals and broken men.

We are waiting, Imperiate.

Theirs sincerely,
Your brother,
Tyrannus Sabiru, Augur of Abbadon

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Aeguary, in the year 560 AF.