You are all so quick to leap and put a name on something new and fresh from a womb, birthed in blood and tragedy from a dying mother, when it has already been said that it will take a decade or more to define it. To leave behind some mark that immortalizes your pain. I understand the instinct.

Cease.

There will be a time when things are less raw, and wounds have had time to scab. A name can be chosen then. In the aftermath of upheaval, turn inward to define yourself, not the breadth and span of untold centuries that lay before you.

A lot can change in a decade or two. See to it that you are among those things that change. Do you want to live a hundred years from now, and to be reminded of nothing but mourning?

Let this new age be shaped by what happens in its tenure, not the violent circumstances of its becoming. Let it live with no name, until it defines one for itself. Leave Midnight behind us, and take your time to mourn.

Her Artisan, Her Voice, Her Psalm of Susurrant Thunder, The Eye of Her Storm,
Aliyah Toirneach

Penned by my hand on Closday, the 2nd of Omeian, in the year 0 AC.