Crusaders of the Varouk-saad,

Noble, you say. There is nothing noble to be found in our pursuit of growth, only the baser instincts of the wilds. To feel what it is to live, to die for a cause that lives and breathes with us, these are not things I would expect the undying to understand.

Your light blinds you, but we will ensure it does not remain that way for long. Your unseeing eyes will be plucked out from your skulls, an offering for the Seer who guides us upon the path of the Rhythm. The Keeper will feast when your chests are ripped to shreds beneath our claws and fangs; those hearts that beat for such 'noble' a cause will finally have something to offer to She Who Provides. Your flapping tongues will decay beneath the Shadow's venom, and your hands that strike eagerly against the wilds will know the withering bite of the Broodmother. Your broken bones will be reduced to ash beneath the flames of the Fury, to serve as fertilizer for wild things to grow, and not a single part of your worthless remains will be bereft of the embrace of the Cycle you deny. We will grant you purpose again.

You have emboldened yourself by playing at this farce of a hunt, thought yourself a predator by picking down the weak and cowing away from the strong. Now, you will truly know the hunt, and you will know what it is to be the hunted.

And when you cower back to your city of stone, broken and bowed, there will be yet another sacrifice.

You are right, Knight-Crusader Sryaen. The culling is nigh.

The Hunter's Fold

Penned by my hand on Kinsday, the 13th of Chakros, in the year 509 MA.