My Distant Patrons,
Zeus’ Brides have entered combat.
Put aside your anger. We have not disobeyed your pleadings. Whatever grand undertaking this is all leading up to, we haven’t given anything about it away. No matter how much my followers may desire it, I have not granted them leave to contend against our Tyrant God.
It was another. Brutus and her minions. They heard, but did not believe, the announcements of the winged ones. They have long held that none may cross their valley, save that they acknowledge their supremacy, and saw no threat in this white robed throng. They did not attend their betters in order to bow, but in order to strike.
One of my younger humans saw the whole thing. She says the singing never stopped.
The Brides faced Brutus’ forces, the servants of a warlord long held fell among the strong, and broke them in the span of a half an hour. Drought, a God of the greatest strength, was overpowered at her own specialty. The plagues of Plasma fell instead upon a version of the Brides that existed only in a story one of them told. Bowser’s speed availed her nothing, as a pair of laughing youngsters took hold of her hands and ran in opposite directions.
These tales, and a dozen more, were the sad ends of Gods mightier than anything your servants could aspire to. The singing drowned out their screams.
I have enjoyed the devices that you’ve sent us, sipped nightly upon your cool wines, wiled away my hours in the study of your flashing screens. I know that you only bestow such favor upon me and mine so that we might be useful to you, but I take pleasure in it anyway. I know your worth, for all you cower away from the Process’s testing. Your way is not without value. You brought meaning and joy into this world.
I will weep, when he kills you.