{Enorian, Bloodloch, Duiran,

The Dark Lady would be pleased. It is each and every one of you who has come to Her table and feasted upon that bitter meal of despair. You drink so deep from the chalice that it saturates your every bone and sinew. Yet where She and hers find purpose in the descent, in the knowing of oneself, you quench your thirst and pretend you do otherwise.

It is each and every one of you that yet holds their head high, in an age where you fail to stand for any thing. You crouch amidst the shredded remnants and call this burial shroud a victory. Enorian, the crusaders who plead for anything else. Bloodloch, an Empire with no aspirations beyond poor comedy and licking the Tyrant's feet. Duiran, once my closest, you offer your hand in friendship to Spinesreach, while the guardians grow parched from the lack of your blood. None of you are what you were, or will ever be again. Despair has become apathy, and it is this you have embraced so tightly.

I envy you this. We envy you this, perhaps, as the Lord and I have ever moved in step. In my past, I would have called you all cowards. Now, I see only the hopelessness of reality. Perhaps their is wisdom in the course you have all chosen, of simply laying down and accepting this... This abomination of an age. It certainly seems a popular stance.

So yes, I envy you, I think. He is Strife, and as His hand, I am Strife. It is our lot to continue to fight where so many have laid down their swords, for the essence of Strife is conflict. Know this. It is a glorious thing, every fight, every test, every struggle. His essence rejoices, for it is His calling and mine, a string plucked to the occasion.

For us, there is no end, there is no avoidance like so many seem to have found to their advantage. Though we will never set down our sword, though we will never rest, we know now that each and every conflict is a fleeting reprieve, for their is no greater end. There is no better tomorrow. There is no breath remaining within the lungs of purpose. This is our curse, our now and forever.

I envy you.

Ever His,

Whirran Arcan-Tetzauh

High Priest of Loss}

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 8th of Sapiarch, in the year 2 AC.