Months before-
"Repent, Kyros!"
"Be as one with us, Salmati."
"Run."

Echo.
Echo.
Gone.

You can speak all the words you want.
They're just words.
Salma had no respect for words.
No respect for the wilds.

Winter does not hear words.
Winter's way is Severity.

I wore a snow white veil:
Unity's bride,
presented by the family of my Praadi.

I carried blades, more blades than I ever thought I'd bear-
A Bard's rapier and needles-
a Duirani's obsidian dagger-
a huntress' arrows and longbow-

(and my teeth.)

My blades did not make me ready.

Nothing could have made me ready.

It's one thing, a small death, the flirtation of a fight-
when your opponent rises new-made, whether by Mirror or Desperation.
Among ascendants and adventurers, such fights are common-
-familiar faces, falling and rising over centuries.

It's another thing, when the Guardians drink with finality-
-when souls are forever sent to the Underking.
When nobody returns.

when nobody

returns.

We gave offering in fourfold.

The Watcherwife Lin tore herself asunder for the sake of Kree-sa Broodmother.

Offerings of blood.
Savagery.
She was beautiful in her praise.
Oh, I'm sorry-
Do you know of blood offerings already?

Don't let this Bard's account bore you-

Do you know what it is to offer to the Festering?

I poisoned my hand.
Until it bloated, rotted, festered, and sickened to its core.
Until the bone gave like butter beneath a Duirani blade.

I gave my hand.
My hand, from my wrist, so afflicted.
I gave, because Festering Z'krell desires decay.
Desires flesh.
Desires death.

The Speaker Prismatic wore a blindfold so that her light would be singular.
She burned, this week.
Beneath the Moonglade, she beseeched Unslaked Nivios-

Nivios did not let her go.
Not the whole while.
She blindfolded herself-
-so that her eyes would not kill at a glance.

The Watcher was last among us.
Hers was the invocation of Vo'acha Shadow.
Have you ever seen the Watcher, black-veiled?

The gaze that you thought fixed?
Unmoving?
What then, when the shadow and stone themselves transmute?
Come alive?
Change.

And what, then, when the Guardians you thought to be listeners alone speak?
Seethe in your gut?
Voices undeniable?

When the Guardians say
STRIKE
KILL
CONSUME?

Urge you to HUNT
your PREY?!

What do you do?

You make your veil RED.

That's what you do.

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 21st of Haernos, in the year 6 AC.