Scorched Newerth

BlightWraithLetter1

An open letter to man, beast, and daemon:

You do not yet know me, yet you know of me. You have seen my work. But do you understand it? My darlings, you must! For, soon, the world as you know it will change: not through progress, but through isolation. Evolution is stagnation! The corners of Newerth house my infantry, hungry to pass along the contagion that will redeem this land polluted with change:

From the noxious rivers that flow through the City of Iron from the Wastelands, their water tainted by the chemicals and excess waste of old Legion technology, a titan of the mire will rise. Under a deluge of acid rain, his power will be exacerbated, initiating among the unprepared a torrent of corrosive destruction. My beast of burden, my little workhorse, summoned from the deep; his joints pulse with anticipation; he groans through rusted maw the suffering he endures, longing only to spread decay.

From the humid Savannas, barbarous and untamed , a man with no conscience waits patiently to mar the blissfully naive. His perception has been untangled; the roaming fauna are his targets, galloping innocently like children on a playground. It will only take one quick shot before the truth pulls them from this charade. In the throes of death, they will see naught but a twisted smile under his cap, obscured by burly mustache, as he leaves them writhing in the torrid sand.

From the desolate Blasted Lands at the tip of the Frost Fields, a tundra sapped of all hope will give way to a powerful sorcerer; he whose thirst for knowledge drew him, painfully, into oblivion. With body ravaged and mind torn, he will march slowly toward Caldavar’s capital city, limbs grotesque and overburdened with the consequences of curiosity, carrying on his shoulders the torment of inhuman excrescence and spiritual destitution. His staff will be a symbol of my corruption, its banner waving ragged in the turbid winds of change.

And from the blighted regions of the Great Waste, arms heaving with viscous impurity, I shall emerge. To supplant Gaia as the heir to this rock, festering with hollow activity, I must manifest rife with disease and despair. Do not be frightened by my visage, however, for I come to liberate you: uproot you from this life that serves only to prolong your suffering. Your world, your mother Newerth, she is a thief in the night, a harlot, and a crook! She sows you like saplings, nourishes your feeble bodies only to feed the next generation of beasts; then when she tires of you, will repeat her process of cleansing, strewing you naked and obsolete back into the dirt.

But I will save you. I will deliver you unto salvation, where you will not rot in the ground but once; no longer will you perpetuate this cycle of abuse for another misguided era. After my plagues have taken your minds, your bodies, and your spirits… I will take your hope. I will plunge my arms deep into the chest of your desire and tear it from its resting place, just as you have been torn from your own, time and again, so that you may want no more.

It is time to restore Newerth to its former glory, for my word to be spread like ashes in the wind. Follow me, become my children, and enact a new policy for your world gone astray: scorch Newerth.

Most sincerely,
BW