Wearing the flesh of Tuwri as you do, your very body imbued in borrowed power,
What could you know, truly, of the Spireans you stand in the thick of?

Time and again, we peel back the layers of your facades, the illusion of might
you so proudly display, on borrowed conduits and besought blessings, in
scapegoated allies and deception of the desperate, amassing an army of panic
and outrage- your weapons found only in the imaginations of those you target.

What could you know of Spireans, their hearts and their wills?
The Artifice we've lived through, crafted, and endured by our own hands- your
finest illusions could never compare to what we -gladly- put upon ourselves.

You wish us to starve? We hunger, yes. But not how you think we do.
You bear us a plague? We ache, always. But not how you wish that we would.

Our appetites are never whetted, our fury never quelled: all you have done
in the end is provide an abundance of seasoning. When the chase ends, when
your flesh is dissected in a thousand cuts, only then will you know a
fraction of our true voracity. When my people rejoice, devouring your limp
corpse in celebration of famine's end, you may find one whit of our will.

A thousand thanks, Vek-Dansh-Who-Wears-Tuwri, for this most magnificent feast:
we thrive upon challenge, we grow by our own determination. However... we
cannot be starved by the likes of your work, as satiation is never truly in
reach. With luck, it never will be.

For a moment, though, you may serve as a splendid appetizer.

The world can already see through your facades: it is only a matter of time.

With appetite,
Dr Pietre Marcelli, Regent.


Penned by my hand on Gosday, the 13th of Haernos, in the year 15 AC.