To the Lady of Blood, Fire, and Poor Life Choices,

Well, well, well... imagine my surprise when a little felbat whispered in my ear that my favorite crimson catastrophe was none other than the plague-slinging ghoul whisperer behind the Gilneas mess.

Oh, Teranca.
You bad girl.

And to think—I’ve been corresponding with a war criminal this whole time! You could’ve at least warned me. I'd have sent you one of my limited-edition “Sylvanas Did Nothing Wrong” pins. Maybe even a mug that says “#TeamBlightHer.” Alas, here I am, mugless and emotionally betrayed.

But really, bravo.
How thoroughly diabolical of you. Turning into a gnome to flee Forsaken oversight? Inspired. Using blood magic to go full Eredar? Dramatic. Unnecessary. And honestly? Extremely on-brand. You’ve always had a flair for the ridiculous, and I, for one, respect the consistency.

Don’t worry, I’m not mad. I’m delighted. You finally lived up to the glowing prophecy I scrawled on that fel-corrupted napkin years ago:

"This one will either destroy half the continent or make the best damn coffee in the Nether."

(And look at you—doing both! Multitasking queen.)

Anyway, now that we’ve had our little trust-fall exercise and I know the real you, I think it’s only fair that we elevate this friendship to the next level. I propose regular correspondence, an unspoken pact of chaotic respect, and possibly—possibly—a felwine tasting next week if I don’t combust my liver before then.

If not, I’ll settle for a vial of that infamous blood creamer. For research purposes. I need to know if it pairs well with sin’dorei shortbread.

Fondly yours (and legally your problem now),
Pusillin
Destroyer of Silence, Breaker of Jars, Collector of Dirt That Looks Like People

Pusillin,

Of course you found out. I’d accuse you of spying, but that would require subtlety, and we both know your approach to information-gathering involves equal parts eavesdropping, bribery, and loudly declaring “I KNEW IT” before anyone confesses to anything. Congratulations, you nosy little carbuncle. You’ve unearthed my sordid past.

Yes. I worked for Sylvanas. Yes. I wore the tabard. No. I will not be giving you one for your “War Crimes and Wine” gala. I burned mine along with the last Forsaken who tried to call me “comrade” unironically.

Also: you’re welcome for Gilneas. Their urban development budget was stagnating.

As for your suggestion that we "elevate this friendship,” I would remind you that calling it a friendship is rather presumptuous, considering your last care package contained a cursed foot and 

something that may or may not have been the soul of a gnome intern you “accidentally displaced.” Still—noted. I’ve cleared a drawer in my apothecary labeled “Pusillin: Handle with Gloves.”

If you truly want a vial of the blood creamer, be warned: it bites. Literally. One of the batches achieved sentience last week and demanded diplomatic recognition. I denied it. It’s now fermenting in a jar labeled “Ambassador.”

And yes, it does pair well with shortbread—preferably the sin’dorei kind, as the arrogance gives it a delightful finish.

In short: you are annoying, impossible, and inconvenient.
Keep writing.

With professional disdain and personal amusement,
Teranca Rymden
Firstborn of the Rymden Line
Artificer of Blood, Fire, and Social Boundaries You Routinely Ignore