Scorched Spring

[quietude]

Messages litter across the continent. Somehow they appear, more often in the outskirts; Still inside, surprisingly. Some method to it must exist.

WINTER IS OVER, AND SPRING SHALL BEGIN;
IF ONLY ONE WOULD KNOW HOW SIMILAR IT IS.
MYRON VORRAOG, THE NECROMANCER, WEAVES DARK MAGIC STILL.
ANOTHER APOLOGIST SITS UPON THE THRONE.
LILA WOODES AND AEMILIYA ALINTEAU;
You are no doubt aware of the likelihood he raises her corpse as of now.
And yet you sit idly.

I was crowned King in her dying gasps-
Your claim to this is as illegitimate as mine, usurper.
No good hearted Dal'thalan stands beside you.

And if what it takes is for another queen to die;
To purge the apologists of such nature;
Then I will do so myself, if none will make you pay.

You even taint Jack Equisol's memory;
A man so selfless he sacrificed himself.
Perhaps he did it for he saw the unholy purpose you used him for.
Shame on you, false queen.
For making the last memories of him,
Of a man fooled into evildoing;
Of a heart too good to see through your lies.

Your crown is naught but a mark.