To the Four

[Hawkeye_Gough 624]

 

 

 

 

ᴏᴘᴇɴɪɴɢ ʟᴀᴍᴇɴᴛ

“A dozen trine… It hath been one dozen trine years since last my voice was one. Since, it has been Thirty-One, and in my heart of stone it has been Thirty-Two. A being encroaches, and naught remains of I. For I… are We. And We call out, one final time.” 

 

To the Four | Call to Heraldry

For who carries the flock?

 

Absence. In the decades of quietude from we Heralds, this is the crime we are most accused of. I admit, foremost, that of absence am I guilty; re-death has quieted my lips when un-death first opened them. But, we are the shepherds of shepherds, with a flock deserving of our guidance. They have fallen, and they deserve to be picked up.

 

I call to thee, my three forebears, named Ember, Umber, and Oak! I am young and you are old. I am the fool, swinging sword until my undoing; but you are each wise, with written word and sacred act as your remembrance. Harken! Now, if never else. 

 

My Monk of Embers, I have gone these cold decades of death, losing my kindness more and more each day. You are the only one, since my head rolled from my shoulders - no, since I was born an unweeping babe - who ever saw me worthy of soothing. I am not as learned as you, nor as sagely, but I am steady as stone nonetheless. Please heed my call, and judge not when I speak to you of Ulis.

 

My Foe of Umbrage, I once tried to hold your Way, though I failed to believe what I preached. When I challenged you, not for what is right but for what I had to believe, you humbled me without judgement. Umber is pure, even when we disagree, and I will always respect the light that you have shown me. Please join my table, and rage with me at the Immortal skies.

 

My Blessing of Oaks, it has become a strange tradition, a thing perhaps unheard of in mortal realms where the unwisdom of the living is so prevalent. Oaks and Strife, as truly opposed as we may be, have been the closest of friends for many a generation. We have more to do, my many-eyed willow. Please grant your wisdom, that my blade remain at my side.

 

My Self, Strife. To all who read my words but cannot heed my call, know that in absence you have never been abandoned. The Wraiths cling to their continent of shade, in prayer and in effort for your benefit and your bounty. There is a Barrowlord, whose very name is the Abyss, and eras have rested on his shoulders during the slumber of all four Heralds. Though what we share may be fleeting even now, all your swords are my Sword. And it is shattered, but never broken.

 

My Friends, the Outside, I have heard of your number. Shepherds who were raised not by the Sixth Synod, nor any Synod before, and who now stand as your own. May it approach you for good. Any aggravations, or ill-wills; any displeasures or grievances I hereby retract. For those who in their scrawling writing disregard you, the dullness of their minds will be no match for your new discovery. 

 

Tell them as I will tell them. The Synod is the council of the shepherds. You are shepherds, and thus your meeting place is the Synod. I hope my Progeny can meet you, and offer both the wise teachings of your predecessors and the quiet listening of your future. I will source for them gifts to share, if they cannot share their own.

 

 

Herlurazhna Garzu Zu’e,

Herald of Strife, Pale Lord of the Sixth Synod, Seat of Less

Barrowlord of the Seventh Synod

 

 

Spoiler

@rathat @The King Of The Moon @femurlord

 

OOC: We'll figure out a time to chitchat for those who want a last meetup before I'm gone <3
I know not all of y'all can/will show up, but if you're able, reach out and we'll figure a time! I'll link this to all of ye <3

 

@Keening ;)