Squawk as you wish, empty one.

Wear your mummer's mask and pat yourself on the back while you delude yourself that your bastardized Spirean Cycle worship is anything less than a laughable, hypocritical abomination.

Prance and prattle about "progress" and "diversity" and "not judging" the path of others, spreading sugar-sweet platitudes to make yourself and others feel warm and cozy in their blasphemies.

Caper about in a stolen skin of shamanism and ritual benediction, delighted at how perfectly you think it sits upon your face, when it sags and rots upon your hollow convictions.

For my part, I will judge the paths that others walk, and I stand unflinching under that same judgement when it is directed at me. There is nothing left to me now but this. I stand unbothered by your attacks, unmoved by your anger, and unimpressed by your twisted, corrupted logic.

For my part, I will walk the walk of the wilds, rather than simply talk of it while sheltered in a haven of perverse alchemy and mutation.

The 'self-righteousness' you see is simply an unwillingness to be silent against that which I know to be false.


Aolin, the Twilight Ritualist

Penned by my hand on Falsday, the 13th of Ivolnos, in the year 2 AC.