O Exalted Lord, Your every word drips with the honey of hypocrisy. You
count Yourself among the Hamadhi, yet Your own prescription for the
troubles of our time is the purging of half the mortal population. There
is no balm in genocide, Lord Eventru, and Your peoples' salvation cannot
be bought in blood.

You speak as if You possess an intimate knowledge of Dynara's mind and
Her plan for creation, but You do not fool me. You are an infant in Her
eyes, as we might seem to You, Exalted Lord. Your wisdom may be beyond
our ken, but all that makes You is an ant lording over gnats, just
another peg on a hierarchy descending from the primordial will, Yudhe.
With age comes wisdom, but also vanity; with power comes pretension.
While the sheer scope of Your powers might be incredible, the failings
of the Twelve make it clear that You are all, as the folk of
Stewartsville remark, "only human" - as with the rest of us, Your hearts
flourish in summer, fade in winter, and are ever at the whim of Your
desires.

I speak to You as one ineffable spark to another, brighter one, as one
of the trillions of expressions of the primordial will existing
throughout all worlds, all planes, and all of the spaces in-between. The
wyrd is one expression of Yudhe's will, the light another, and who are
You, You who are less than a speck, to go about arranging things and
assigning them worth? We decide our own worth, and decide who is right
by who succeeds. We are in this day and age engaged in a great
experiment to see which of the myriad forces at work in our world will
triumph over the rest. How will we know when we are victorious? Can we
be? These are the questions on our lips, and this is why we fight. It is
why I fight for the wyrden way, and why my enemies fight for theirs. I
do not bear hate towards my enemies, only determination to see my dreams
brought to fruitation and to see the nightmares which they conjure put
to rest. We are each fighting for the best possible world, and out of
necessity only the greatest out of us will succeed.

I ask You, then, to put aside Your Lordly decrees to we "little ones".
Join hands with us and bring this slaughter to an end, or join the fray
and drive Your enemies before You. But enough of this sly deception from
You who would claim to be my God. I am no less Yudhe's son than You and
no less a product of the songs of creation, and I demand the respect
accorded to all such beings.

Yours,
Azoth Nae'blis

Penned by my hand on the 10th of Vestian, in the year 250 CE.