I am content, to say the least, with what you do, though I’m not pleased. I will not fight, nor stand against, the hell you bring unto our land. I have no chance to make my case, no way to tell you to your face, that what you’re doing to the world is wrong. I guess I’ll die, a comfort there, a comfort borne of my despair.
I’ve washed my hands of many things, and yet somehow this time it stings. I thought, perhaps, you’d make it right, but you’ve not come to give us light, o lord of night.
Tale Told 