To whom it may concern:

It has come to my attention that the responsibility for the supposed
destruction of nature has fallen upon the shoulders of the village of
Ithaqua. As such, we are required to present a formal apology for our
actions regarding the Arythian Rowan or offer our corpses involuntarily.
Now, I am well aware of what beings have the audacity to make such
requests and I have come forward to kindly respond that your requests
are being rejected. I will make no apology or express regret for the
actions taken by the frozen north in this time of woe and peril. We did
what we deemed necessary and by our traditions there is no fault to be
had by making a choice to act.

I will not allow the Ithaqua to take the blame for the actions of the
world. It was not only the Ithaqua that asked the Ahithophel, the
Arbiter of Ruin to call upon the essence of the Griever to consume the
tainted tree. When last I looked, Nisha Savet and Laia SaGael did not
possess the mettle to call themselves villagers of the frozen north.
Even then, it was not Ahithophel who sought out those of Khandava. In
truth, it was the sage, Rythanis, who sent the wayward southerners to
the shambles of the Grievers library. Your chosen, Your cherished few
made the conscious decision to cast the blight upon the tree, that none
of You saw fit to claim until it was dead. If and of You wish to cast a
blame upon this mortal world, first look into a mirror as the decision
to not act is worse than any decision to act.

What could I mean? For hundreds of years, the Ithaquans have relied upon
the most primal of instincts and the cold unfeeling logic of our fold to
guide us within our bleak homeland. We are used to the silence of the
Light, the lack of care in the Wilds and the fanciful fiction that is
life. Our world is defined by Death, Wrath and Ruin; those are the
thoughts that guide us. Your chosen however, bask in the presence of
your maternal feelings. They are blessed to be coddled and guided
through this vicious world by the caring and loving thoughts of their
beloved patrons. Yet in their time of need, they called upon you for
wisdom, for guidance, for aid. And as the Ithaquans long ago, their
prayers fell upon deaf and uncaring ears. In the absence of Your hands,
Your voice, Your wisdom, they chose the only path that seamed reasonable
to them at the time, the path the Black Pine has walked for so long.

In so doing, Your children called the essence of Ruin and set it upon
the very tree You were rumored to care so dearly for, yet failed to even
muster a thought to save it. Unfortunately for them, they could not for
even the briefest of moments unite together for a cause greater than
themselves. Even when the gaggles of southerners chased the trailing
wisps of the unnatural blight, wasting their efforts and doing more harm
than good, Your voices remained silent, their prayers remained
unanswered.

By miracle of mortal ingenuity, the dreaded blight was overcome and a
verdant green mist encompassed the world, rejuvenating what little of
nature survived, but left the flora you capitalize upon in utter ruin.
It was now a time for Your chosen to prove their devotion and dedication
to a cause and they hastily gathered upon their soap boxes and began to
rant and rave about the unfairness of indecision and ambiguity. In so
doing, the confidence in numbers and devotion they felt they had was
swept out from under them as the bark began to fall freely from the now
dead Arythian Rowan, a monument to your communal failure.

And now, at the end, You choose to suddenly embrace the now dead cause.
You send word to your Oracles that Ithaqua is to blame for the
destruction of Your trophy. So be it, but know that the world will has
seen the truth of the matter.

I formally the following thought as an apology to Khandava, the Children
of Life, the Chosen of the Wilds, the Arboreals and all those who prayed
to the Light to rescue their beloved tree. I offer my most sincere
apologies that you were forced to endure the emptiness and desperation
that comes in the unnatural silence following a prayer that fell upon
deaf ears.

Sincerely,
Kabal, Wildgraf of the Ithaqua.


Penned by my hand on the 4th of Halitus, in the year 461 AD.