I commend the efforts of all who endeavor to find, formulate, and disseminate a cure for this pestilence that plagues us all, no matter what that may be. To embark on such an effort is applauded. I, for one, am not well versed in the ways of science or ritual, magics or horticulture. I am a very simple man. I like my booze, tabac, and other mind-altering substances as much as the next.

To those, armed with quills, fighting on the fields of parchment and paper. And to the warrior armed with weapons of war whom marches out upon the battlefield. Your honor and dedication to your beliefs is awe inspiring. May your weapons strike true and your words find you favour in the eyes of your Gods. Stand by your teachings, defend your creeds, and let no man falter your steps.

To the rest of Sapience without the tongue of a philosopher, mind of a ritualist, or the arm of a warrior. To adventurer and denizen alike. I offer my deepest sympathies for your suffering and mourn with you your lost. This plague suffers none whom it encounters and has brought out the worst in a lot of us. Pointed fingers, rumors, assaults, murder, and mayhem abound.. But what if there is no cure? What if there is no hope? No survival?

Then I say, let them rot.

Mourn your lost, bury your dead, and be done. At the end of our lives, when we are dead and gone, so too will we be mourned. So too will our loved ones lay low our corpses that you may feed the things that creep and crawl within this place.

And as the eons pass and histories are written and lost to time, so too will your name and legacy be forgotten. Your name spoken no more. Your deeds meaningless.

You will be forgotten, and in that, there is peace.

So let them rot. Turn your eyes and hearts to the now, look not towards the future. Engorge yourselves on that meal. Inbibe in drink or drug. Bed that woman you've desired. Break that man who's harbored ill will against you.

For in the End, there is only Oblivion. Indomitable in it's advance and just in it's judgement, all are treated to the same end, be they king or peasant. Whether by He who keeps the Iron Gate, or by this plague, it matters not. All will be brought before the Void, and all will be cast unto Oblivion.

So fight, gnash your teeth at one another.

I'll take my leave of it all and enjoy my booze. Come share a drink or a pipe stuffed with cactus weed if you'd like. I've made my peace, and have found the same.

Penned by my hand on the 12th of Lupar, in the year 979 AF.