Oh... Ayelus. You seemed to have forgotten your role in the Saboteurs.
Your reason of exsistance also. The only way to keep one at bay is to
keep them on your side. I could only tolerate that, even, for so long,
before I wanted to claw my eyes out and slit my throat. You were a good
worker ant to begin with. That ran its course rather quickly.

You, my dear, are on the same level as a two year old who didn't get his
way. Scream, throw a fit, sure. Ayelus was in the light for a brief
time, but he got a bit carried away with it. You can declare that
because of your last name, you are a mighty warrior, but I really
haven't seen much triumph in the area of combat. Here's a wake up call,
darling. You being a Nessaja does not mean you are good at anything you
do. If anything, you preaching about your family so much in this mini
joke only makes those of your family sink to a lower level. You have no
gift. You have no talent. You were used, Ayelus, and even then, the
usage I got from your being wasn't worth the nonsense I had to deal
with.

You were never an assassin. You will never be an assassin. Wipe your
snivelling nose and move on with life. Buy friends with the little
scraps you have. Your pocket change means nothing. Just as before, your
voice will die out and we'll all be able to know that one less joke is
walking among us. Do the Vega thing, hide phased or locked up in a city,
coming out only when there's nobody around who knows how to poke you
with a dirk. That's all you did before, and I'm sure that's not about to
change.

You're voice is only a hair louder than the wind. You're presence is as
important as a vial of sulfonal. We can all hope it will eventually fade
away.


Drillia Argyle

Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Bellum, in the year 451 AD.