Dear lesser Imp, fallen Templars, odious Outsiders, and other assorted evildoers,

The Praadi acknowledge your warnings. We see the mutilation and misery that you visit upon Ithmia's children. We hear their torment beneath an unhallowed, unnatural flame. We sense your indiscriminate cruelty as you lash out at the truly innocent; scions of boundless grace and generosity who freely offer bounties of succour, shade, and beauty, but ask nothing in return. You sow Death in the name of spite, divorced from the harmony of the Rhythm.

The Praadi acknowledge your warnings, not for the artifice of your words, but for the truth of your deeds. You defy the will of the Cycle and visit your depravity upon those who offer no threat and have no defence, duly warning us of the evil that lurks behind your facade. Through the sacrifice of blood and bone, we carry this warning to the Six, the almighty Spirits who defied the Cosmos and bestowed Renewal upon Life Herself.

I bring you Their answers.


Srahda's talons pierce the gauzy veil that binds mortal eyes, granting us Sight to peer through even the brightest Light. The pansophical Raven derides all Lightbound who play at friendship with Life and Death. She rebukes your deceptions and delusions with a thrice-named curse: Enemy of Life, Scorned by Death, and Anathema to Renewal. Cease labouring under naive pretence; your mere existence is a wound upon Dia'ruis, and She reviles each and every one of you in thrall to discordant Spirit. The Seer has no mercy for the ignorant.


Vo'acha's rasping hiss reminds us of what it means to fear. The Serpent stalks the forest and winnows the weak; should we falter and be found wanting, His strike will claim us and nourish the land with our blood. The Shadow's fear eclipses all others as we kill, die, and sacrifice in His name. Tread softly through the woods, for the shade of the canopy offers you no refuge. Stray from the herd, and you will learn the darkest depths of terror.


Rhulvok's wisdom kindles the joy of Life in our hearts. The steadfast Bear reminds us that our duty is born of love for the tranquility and purity of the wildlands. Break your weapons on our bodies, for we stand with the Warden's own endurance. Bring your blades, your maces, and your flames; we accept each scar, burn, and shattered bone with the song of Hope on our lips. We give our lives gladly because the land cannot always protect itself, and because the peace and beauty of this world deserves to survive your cursed age.


Kree-sa plots Her webs and weaves Her plots. It was She who you should have feared most of all, She who crept along with your pilfered conjurations, and She who doomed your unnatural Dawn before it began. The Broodmother's bite was swift, painless, and lethal. Her venom spreads, poisoning your hearts, twisting your minds, and driving you to acts of unspeakable Desperation. Each atrocity you commit, each virtue you betray, is an unwilling prayer to the guileful Spider. Your broken ideals make a fitting feast for Her endless brood.


Griash exemplifies the harmony of the Rhythm. The midnight Cougar passes between the tumult of Life and the stillness of Death, guiding us through trials of doubt and emotion to focus on the deepest truth of the Cycle: the inevitable End heralds a radiant Beginning. The souls that we sacrifice pass through the Keeper's vigil into Death and Renewal, taken with the savagery of the wilds to unite with Life Eternal. Death within the Rhythm is not cruelty, punishment, or indignity; their sacrifice is forever unforgotten, just as you are forever bereft of Her love. The Keeper's harmony defines our purpose and unfetters us from the fear, anger, and hatred that sway your words and deeds.


None understands Fury or Flame as intimately as the invincible Wyvern, whose ire burns across the Void to scour your vile works from the land. Takaros scorns you as children holding a candle, enthralled by its potential, but inadequate to contain it. Like children, you fail to understand the calamity that yearns to escape your grasp and consume the world, and how powerless you are to stop what you've begun. You are unworthy to wield Fury, so it rules you instead, but Fury calls to Fury, Flame begets Flame, and we will meet your Crusade and smother your potential before it can grow to threaten the Rhythm. His winged shadow will eclipse your Light, and the cinders of your failure will fertilize new growth to reclaim the Hammer of Dawn.


The lessons of the Spirits are difficult for the foolish or naive to grasp, but it's the sworn duty of the Praadi to educate even the most unruly students. For those with a curious mind, the Vintal clan is open to friend or foe as a place for civil inquiry. Enorianites be warned: the Light detests an open mind and will see you outcast and murdered for daring to gaze outwards. Anyone who fears such persecution is welcome to approach me in secret.

The Old World watches.

Penned by my hand on Gosday, the 16th of Lanosian, in the year 509 MA.