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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