To the one known as the Curator, keeper of stilled things:


We curse your purpose.
May it rot between your fingertips.

We curse your shadow.
May it only hunger to consume you.

We curse your name.
May it be forgotten from memory, along with your life's work.





This curse is spoken in reverence of decay, renewal, and all that lives because it changes.
In the blessed name of the Forestwalker, who will not comfort you.

Declared under the Rite of Rot, enacted at the witch's hour, beneath closed sky.
Enacted and bound by ash beneath the crown and the blood by which it drank
Witnessed by sunlight, by executioner, and by ghost.






Penned by my hand on Falsday, the 4th of Haernos, in the year 10 AC.