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UNCTIONEM IGNI


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In the cold air of the summer’s breeze. My eyes gazed upon my family. And in their stead, I saw a pyre. In ages of light, pyres are synonymous with death. With loss and reckoning. In ages of dark, they are seen as bastions of warmth. Of cleansing. Of renewal. Though I am not some scholar to denote our times as light or dark, the pyre that I see before me is of the latter sort.

Mighty Owyn. His flames coursing through the dark. Filling the streets. Filling my heart. Lashes of heat whip about, cleansing those spirits who might be lost. In Canonism I found love. It was a cool love. A comforting one. I felt myself safe and secure in the grasp of GOD. Though Canonism alone could not stem the coming storm.

Our cathedrals torn asunder by wicked demons from the deep. Our lands plagued by bandits and butcherings. Beasts clawing out from the shadows of wicked woods. War driving brother against brother. If Canonism was gentle warming hope, then our adversaries were frigid icy despair. What could melt such a formidable foe?

 

New litanies ring through my ears, spoken on the wind by blessed men of Faith. Their words echo mighty Owyn’s response to our cries.
 

I knelt before the flames, my eyes enraptured by their power and glory. I spoke frigidly, an avatar of the dark, and the Lectors spoke with his very teachings, bringers of the light:

“What will you do against our plight?”

TO THE DARKNESS I BRING FIRE.

“How will you deliver us to salvation?”

TO THE IGNORANT I BRING FAITH.

“Will you protect us against the coming storm?”

THOSE WHO WELCOME THESE GIFTS MAY LIVE,

 

“What will be done about our devourers?”

 

BUT I WILL VISIT NAUGHT BUT DEATH AND ETERNAL DAMNATION ON THOSE WHO REFUSE THEM.

 

My hand rests upon my heart. I remember the sermon like it was yesterday. Though I was a Canonist at the core, frigid times require fiery men. The White Flame will see us through.

Before me I see a pyre. Of rebirth. Of renewal. I experienced it some time ago, and now I was extending it to those I loved. My family, my kin. Giving themselves to the pyre. Though soot and ash did not mark upon their brow. Instead, the love of GOD marked them as bastions of his light.




May the White Flame guide both me and my lineage,
Evangéline-Marie Halcourt d’Artois

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Darius took seat next to his mother, a smile plastered on his face after being baptized alongside is mother

 

Edited by Nord
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