Hope is dead, no matter how foolishly you cling to its hollow corpse.

Renewal only brings with it evermore abject displays of misery.

The Cycle is fit only to be wrenched apart and wound into Mother's Spiral.

In Malice and Might, the Chosen will permit the wilds to fulfill their sole purpose: to be despoiled. The lirathyar will drink poisoned blood that would make the Fundamental Darkness recoil in horror, and it will drink until it drowns.

There is no place beyond the reach of Mother's touch -- not in life or death or undeath or Chaos or the elemental planes. Varian's malformed patch of weeds is no different. In every fracture of the mortal heart, soul, and body, Corruption grows.

Ever Downwards.

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 18th of Ios, in the year 9 AC.