Earlier this month shortly after I began my morning jog on the Ethereal
Plane, I discovered that a few of Mother Moon's silly champions had
risen anew, frisky as ever. As I expected, my arrival triggered one of
those pesky haunts Lendren is so apt at moaning into existence. Before I
could take a single step, the mighty Heir of Glinshari threw his hands
into despair at my very presence and called the forest of Ethereal
Serenwilde to life wasting an extraordinary amount of power for a single
foe.

Within moments many showed to assist him such as to the mouthy Furrikin
known as Ijen and the ostentatious Iasmos, whose weapons cause more pain
to my poor eyes contemplating their tacky existence than any blow they
might deal. Lendren assumed his perch at the Mother Moonhart chatty as
ever, mysteriously aeoned when it comes to doing anything other than
crying foul. With hop and a skip, I quickly relived my life as the Heir
of Ellindel, dancing my way through the seasonal oddities and when I
came to my senses, I was covered in blood! It seems against half a dozen
raiders in a demesne in Liveforest, I still managed to dig my claws into
the Moon's bosom, and the wound I left is as purulent as ever. All of
Mother Moon's champions have sense made their way to the meat shop.

I beg you Serenwilde, spare yourself. You are not fit for the ways of
Nifilhema. You are weak, and your champions bleed dry forsaking you and
your Gods for the tainted forest in the south. What could you possibly
lose in seeking peace with my mighty nation? Do you not yearn for a
moment of fresh air so you might tender the few that remain?

Alarmed and concerned,
Narsrim D'cente`


Penned by my hand on the 23rd of Kiani, in the year 245 CE.