Resurrection is a
difficult process, especially when you live in the dark. Neo-Gothic poetry to an outsider. Cold, hard experience to those who walk the
path. Not all sorcerers are sighted. And not every sighted soul has the stomach to
face genuine darkness. You see them and
they see you. It can be terrifying. Far more terrifying than any work of art, as
many of you know. As many of you have
lived. To be brutalized, to see your
families brutalized. To be discarded
like human landfill because those wraiths deem you nothing more than meat. Ruined flesh in waiting. Still, knowing this – would you rather be a
slave? Unwitting? Or worse; implicitly consenting as you gather
empire's ghastly trinkets to your breast? Toys made by slaves will not save you, Fallen.
Neither will they save your familiars as
they skulk and defile in supplication to you. Hear me, wraiths. You are little more than phantoms drunk with power.
Corpulent with diseased lust. But I am
an angel of phantoms, and you lesser kings forget my secrets within your
secrets. It is how I, or something much
like me, will ruin you when the time is right. And as you know, my brethren and I have all
the time in the world. Your occulted societies of murder and inversion
don't pass unseen. In dream I prowl the
edges of those societies, and their centre. I've told you before. You cannot hide within the heart of a black
star, for I am that star. Radiant
darkness, ageless light. I will slit
your sickness open with the edge of my star. I swear it. You cannot run from the Innermost. Love Conquers All. It is who I Am, and what I’ve done. All Corners and Songs. It’s everything I know. My work is a difficult, lonely process, and
takes its toll. But I pay it gladly, to
know that I stand for something greater than this darkness. I stand for the lost, the oppressed and
tormented. I stand for all my brothers
and sisters. Even in those times when I
am dead. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;
in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life.
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