To the Mouth Without Teeth,

You ask if we have felt it. Felt what, exactly? The tremble of your quill? The breathless flutter of your vaguely announced intentions? You speak of weight, of shifts in the air, but your words land with all the force of spoiled entrails flung against the wall. If you meant to strike fear into those who cling to shadows, you should have done more than attempt to sound powerful without actually making any threats.

Instead, we are left with this not-quite-declaration. A coward's sermon cast into the void, hoping someone else will give it purpose. You name no enemy. You aim at no heart. And still, you speak of this coming Dawn. Who is it coming for, exactly? Are you sure the Lord whose name you evoke approves of this withering candle of a message left to gutter in the winds of interpretation?

Allow me to be clear, since you cannot.

Magnagora does not fear the Dawn. We have walked through screams that never ended, waded through fields slick with the marrow of our dead. We have stood beneath skies torn open by the Soulless and wept tears that boiled away before they could fall. We have borne the gaze of Demon Lords and called it instruction. You think your so-called reckoning will break us? It will be a pinprick against flesh already scarred, a warm breeze on skin long since flensed. Let it come. We were the only city to survive the catastrophe your ancestors unleashed upon the entire Basin. And so too shall we survive these poetic musings.

If there is a threat, speak it. If there is an enemy, name it. If you cannot, be silent and leave the stage to those not afraid to talk with purpose. Your Dawn does not rise. It whimpers and fades beneath the grinding will of the Engine. It cannot halt Transformation, nor can it stop what has already begun, the remaking of all life in the glorious image of the Taint.

Yours in Service,
Tzshalgoth, Warden of Truth

Penned by my hand on the 12th of Kiani, in the year 704 CE.