A turquoise-robed woman, bald, heavily tattooed, with her moth stitched shut, approaches you, and delivers this message, written on diaphanous silk, before leaving without a word.
"Dear Monstrous Effulgence,
I write to express my deep satisfaction on receiving your recent communication. The brutal and moronic aesthetic of its delivery, contemptible effrontery of its contents and marginal grasp of magical art involved in its creation succeeded in reaching a near-animal level of courtesy, style and beauty. The Yak-minded nature of your missive confirmed on every level my suppositions about the shameful mediocrity, decadence, poverty and gauche materialism of whatever culture squeezed out your form and character, very much as the afterbirth of a pigs womb is squeezed from the corpse of a plague-dead sow who crosses the terminating line of life at the moment of delivery, spewing forth, no doubt, some vile litter of squealing, mutated and bile-slick young with which to harry and torment the wiser cultures of the world.
I was as pleased as I was unsurprised to hear of your near-death at the hands of one of the more minor spirits to torment this unhappy land, deeply amused by your frantic flight and likewise disappointed in the servants of the Mantis God. If only they had known that by simply closing their doors on your shivering and wasted mortal form and leaving you to your one-thousand-times-deserved and absolutely brutal death (may it come soon!), they would have been performing a service to the city and the world equivalent of excising a cancer from the body of an innocent child. (For you are indeed a tumour, both the disease and its symptom.) Perhaps they would have chosen differently.
No doubt though you still cling to life with the thoughtless and ratlike cunning of your tree-dwelling ancestors. Like all true vermin, I do not suppose that your extermination will be easily achieved. In addition to this, the presence of a Baital in Syr Darya, though only a pin-prick in the magisterial reach of my truly global paradigm, is of some small interest to me.
While I am certain that this is one of the few instances in which the predations of these darker spirits are justified, (probably by one of a range of secret and shameful crimes engaged in either by you, or the effluvia of your sewer-like home of mediocre yet-still-utterly-certain basically fucking stupid rationalist filth who accompany you), nevertheless, in this one instance, it would please me greatly to laugh directly into your tiny, sharp-boned, dog-eyed, monkeylike face.
Should you still live, (and I hope you do not!), you may drag your degraded and pustulent flesh to my door where I will not immediately excise you from creation.
Pursuant to this, I Xab Yeng Yaaj, swear by the Chaos Tree, Father of my Race, that I will do you no harm etc etc. Offer ends Midnight, 9th October."
May you burn forever in the deepest pits of whatever your fallen race calls Hell.
Yours sincerely, Xab Yeng Yaaj."