Look at you all, wrapping your enmity in chintzy shrouds and flimsy prayers.

Drivel.

There is only blood and bone. The turning of a wheel whose pace dictates the neverending chase of predator and prey. To hunt and to be hunted is a purity you will never fully understand.

Those of you who have been marked by the Praadi: you have been blooded and ruined, you have ripped your assailant apart, or you stand as of yet untouched, knowing Dia'ruian witches have learned the distinctive taste of your scent.

One name. One blood. Sacred silence and smoke.

Our hunt continues unabated.

Penned by my hand on Closday, the 24th of Lleian, in the year 9 AC.