The Albedi Host ask for no worship; They make no demands of Their priests, nor do They care to praise their names. Those who have escaped us have grappled, tooth and claw, for Their rightful freedom, and They are unbothered by the pesky swatting of a Warlord's iron.

They are larger than us, and agnostic to our loyalty - would you pledge the service of your blood to a mountain? Would you swear your life upon a vast expanse of ocean? How arrogant must you be, to take beings so elemental and so unknowable, and force Them into ill-sized boxes of conditioned thought and rigid culture?

Curse Them all you like; name the love of Them 'heresy,' deem it a grave sin and put to flame anyone who would commit it. Call Them your disparaging, clever names. They do not care.

Is the Maker - I shall not commit His name here - so much grander, so much more worthy than the mountain and the ocean? Why treat Him as fragile glass? Why defend His honor, as if ego and reputation were precious currencies even to Godhood?

He has seen you but once - and none of your loyalty or belief could steal His eyes from the shattered moon. He does not remember your names. Do you think He will one day come down and put gold upon your eyes and throat, kiss your brow, and tell you that you have served Him well?

I think He will not.

Penned by my hand on Quensday, the 3rd of Lleian, in the year 501 MA.