While the smoke still lingers on the sweet forest air, I will take a
moment to pause and reflect. Dearest Mysti, I must be frank. While I
know you want to put forward your best face for Oakstone, and a strong
facade for the rest of the Land, I must disagree with a few things you
say.

Now we have been over this a hundred, nay, a thousand times before. The
"strength" shown by Oakstone was really anything but. I will readily
admit I took my lumps during this war. I died, as did many of my fellow
brethren. But during our deaths, we managed to rend asunder over and
over a goodly part of your precious forest. While you paid gold to fix
our deeds, we gained in essence and power. Our deaths were met in the
form of blazing infernos of flame from your dragon lips, and even then,
our deaths were few and far between. Surely less than I thought I would
endure when the war was begun. After all, the numbers against us were
undeniable and unavoidable. Yes, you did have strength. Strength in
numbers. But not in skill. Not in power. And certainly not when it came
to charred wilderness.

And so you offered our Lord five souls. Formally, that is. For when you
begun this war, you officially offered Him the lives and souls of your
young ones. The innocent who were thrown into this battle still lick
their wounds and wonder why their parents, their mentors, their
guardians, cast them out to be ravaged and torn apart by us, the
followers of Evil. Your young are the true losers of this war.

And so, you mighty pack of wolves! This treaty we will have does not
come free. We have both lost a lot, indeed. But what we gained was so
much more. We gained faith in our Lord. And in so doing, we gained some
respect from Him as well. We carried out His ideals to the end, and your
cubs were the unwitting recipients of the savagery of such a process. So
go, you mighty pack. Go and run free as true wolves do.

With your tails between your legs.

Xerimor, the mortal Voice of Evil


Penned by my hand on the 10th of Aeguary, in the year 282 AF.