Each poster sought to plant itself snugly beside the mass distributed numbers of Abigail Tucker's, if only to make it all the clearer who the White Widow addressed today. "I seldom print my word, but when I do, I ensure it is fit to be immortalized." I cannot say I anticipated that, in the midst of a burning city, from the ashes would rise an assault on all that is honest, and from the defiled mind of a woman who I would once call my friend, no less. It is because of this that I refuse to earnestly address this bitter variant as Abigail Tucker, for she has clearly been robbed of her sensibilities. As conscious creatures, it is our sanity that tethers us to our individuality. The relationship one has with their coherence is naturally fragile, and it is by the grand influence of Odella, the Mother in her virtuous glory that we, the Abyssal kind, upkeep a vow to strengthen that bond. To lose the sense, is to lose the self. While you are in this sorry state, “Abigail”, you are nothing but a pretender and devolved husk of the joyful spirit you once were. You and your own are content to stumble and blunder through naive ignorance, tearing asunder the literal pages which fuel the culture of sacred knowledge - all for the sake of faux bliss. What you have presumed to be a Holy War is, in reality, a tantrum; a paltry cry for meaningless unity beneath a deceptive cause and rejection of truth unfit for your prejudice. Our purpose is eternally true, and yours is eternally beneath us. While the heavens themselves grieve beyond the veil of leaden smoke that clouds the sky, emanating from pyres of blind and curse-bound hatred, the victims of your wrath become victims no longer. Our patience thins, and in time, so too will your faith. Having been blessed with more time than you could beg for, I swear to you that I will engrave the memory of outliving your ill-fated endeavor into the very forefront of my everlasting memory. As you rot, I will cherish the personal care of warping your legacy as I see fit. Over the span of one thousand years, your tale will be that of mythic forewarning to children who dare pretend they know best. Was it not you in particular who once mourned to the stench of inferno in the air? Was it not you, lost child of Glee, who condemned acts you perceived as vehement cruelty by the hand of somebody you used to know? Your intended desire to please your goddess and her cause serves as no vindication and fails to guide you on a separate path, for you know as well as the rest of us that they, too, had a purpose to die for. I care not for what names you invoke, nor for the desperately spat rationale of your bloodlust. Your brutish rampage has struck within me a personal chord, and by my divine purpose and perpetual responsibility, have thus forced me to act. If this dawning age of blood and revolution has taught me anything, it is that I do what I do because I must. And, if I must strike down an old friend and their incessant company of frothing strays in the name of preserving the hallowed prosperity of my kin and our righteous godhead, so be it. Your temperamental mania may very well be an ironically executed joke, but the consequences of such have left scant room for amusement. You will have your game of war, hereby set in this Lich Lord’s playground of a desolate city. The price for your insolence is steep. If you insist on compensating for it in blood, so be it. ☀ Irel, the White Widow ☾ Penumbra of Penumbra's Circle ✦ Commander to the Solifugae Bloodguard @Lizmun @KrakenLord01 @ElderShrub
