Endovelicus

Efrayim had been busy at work, copying a new set of scriptures in the proper Safedi script, when, as always, Callahan had barged in, interrupting Efrayim Rabbeinu's beautiful calligraphic work of art. Nonetheless, the Rabbi placed down the quill and looked up, awaiting for the Tzaddik to unload whichever spiritual issue burdened him now. As Callahan spoke, Efrayim was satisified, 'Ah, yes, a simple matter for once, unlike with Raguk Tahareinu' he thought, and so, for such a simple question, he gave an equally simple answer. Callahan departed, and Efrayim thought him satisified, for when Callahan was not satisified he argued and kvetched, and so the Safedi Rabbi smilled, grabbing his quill once more, unware of the Kohen's unraveling mental state as he scribbled the next passage.

"Didn't Saint Humbert die in the 1500s?" Queries a certain Father Raymond.

Hey, I have a 10 by 10 room that needs a new carpet, when can you fit it in your schedule? Also when will we transcend the mortal coil and achieve true enlightenment? In this kalpa or the next?

The Song of Miriam A translation of an Ancient Text By: Klemens Maria Nestor Wittenbach, Esq Foreword: The following is a translation of a previously lost text, dated to the Millennium of Silence. The author of this text wrote it in the style of ancient Aaunic triumphal hymns, utilising many of the same motifs as other scattered examples from this pre-Danielite Aegisian Period. The inscription was carved into a stele of granite; although the stele itself appears to have been lost, one surviving copy and illustration remains. This illustration and copy of the text were produced in the Atheran period, shortly after the Schism War, by the scriptorium of Leuvaarden, making it a part of St. Kristoff’s private collection. Over the years the manuscript was sold, landing in the hands of a Petran esquire who sold it off to me to afford safe passage to the continent of Aevos. Since no translation had been attempted I embarked on this journey to produce the original text forth from its pages. The text itself was written in archaic Aegisian Flexio, hardly recognized as Flexio when compared with the more standard Ecclesiastical Flexio which in itself stemmed from the High Imperial Flexio spoken by the high officials of Exalted Godfrey during the Anthosian Period, utilising a runic script rather than the modern Common Alphabet graphemes. The text itself describes the victory attributed to the wife of King Caius I of Aaun, a woman by the name of Miriam, who, when her husband was infirm, defeated those who opposed the reign of Caius II, becoming the ‘Judge of the Nation.’ As such, this ancient text provides many interesting details surrounding ancient human history, society and religion, details which had been lost since the burning of Pontia a millennium ago. With that, I provide the reader with my translation of the text. Klemens Maria Nestor Wittenbach, Esquire On the Day of Victory Miriam, Judge and Lord did sing praises unto the LORD: 🕀 WHEN the grape of the covenant is consumed, When the sacrifices are rendered in holy holocaust, When the waters of Gamesh flow once more, When the LORD brings us a Son of the Spirit, We will praise the LORD into the night, We will praise the LORD into the day, You LORD did descend upon the plane of Paradisus And You did scatter the Denier and bind him in chains, Lo, the angel of the LORD comes, and He shall come once more, Hear this, you Kings and Princes, Tremble and be fearful, The LORD is a merciless judge, And I, Miriam, daughter of Ab, son of Ganus, And I am alike my GOD, for I show no mercy You LORD who did exalt Horen and Owyn, And You who did foreordain the next coming, Lo, send Your spirit upon myself, so I may be transfigured. In the days of Budic, son of Baldwin, fields were unplowed The roads were unpaved and the cities dens of inequity, Twas Caius, my beloved, to whom I was bound, That restored the fires of GOD’s tabernacle, Twas he who restored Aaun, You LORD whose voice shall be heard once more, And You who shall shout down the unbeliever, Lo, send Your voice upon myself, so I may praise You. And after his disease wicked men did come upon Aaun, Crying out; “Out with Caius and his wicked GOD!” Fools! For the LORD’s with us, who is against us? Thus I blew the ram’s horns, and the priests sang their hymns, Thus did the virtuous come under my banner. You LORD of hosts, that commands a mighty army, And You who reigns above the firmament, Lo, send Your arm and strike my enemies. So came Tyrus, ashen keeper, Abel and his company, So came Pharyc and Hubal and men from Darfae, And from the ancient lands of Edel did men come from also, In support of Caius son of Caius, of crooked back but righteous soul, Against the hosts of the enemies. You LORD wise beyond comprehension, He who knows the movement of stars, And You, who sees and knows all, Lo, enlighten my mind, so I may be as wise as a serpent. And the enemy gathered, Rhederid, prince and son of Fellimore, Janus, priest of a false sacrament, Eva daughter of inequity, And many men also came to their camp, clad in viciousness, Sin and lust, and they committed foul acts in the countryside, And burdened the cities with unjust rule and tax. You LORD, great Father of All, And You who loves all nations, Lo, send down your love so I may be like a Mother of All. So Janus placed a crown on Rhederid, and named him king, And the people were displeased and killed Janus, Yet their army defeated ours for it pleased the LORD to humble us, Yea, but Tyrus and Abel, wombless brothers, gathered my men and did battle, And the priests blew their trumpets and victory was delivered on the fields of Manasse. You LORD, breathless being, never ceasing, ever expanding, And You, who stretches the very firmament forever, Lo, assume me into Your divine state so I may rule the stars, And the enemy was scattered forever more, Rhederid was stoned, Eva, speaker of lies, was quartered, and her remains fed to the vultures, Janus’ remains were exhumed, and his followers hunted, so that no vile relics remained, And praises were sung, and wine was drank and Caius was crowned, Yea! The man of wretched countenance but of upright soul was made king. You LORD, creator of all, small and large, of prefect visage and comely sight, And You, who breathed life into even the great wyrms, Breathe life into me, so I may be made anew. And Caius son of Caius was king, and there was much rejoicing. And I, Miriam, daughter of Ab was made a terrible Judge of the Nation, And I scattered all my enemies, and ripped out their tongues, And I did give holy sacrifice in the tabernacle of the LORD, And I did drink the holy wine of the sacrament. After the grape of the covenant is consumed, After the sacrifices are rendered in holy holocaust, After the waters of Gamesh flow once more, After the LORD brings us a Son of the Spirit, We will sing unto the LORD; Amen! Amen! We will sing unto the LORD; Hallelujah! Hallelujah! 🕀 Interpretation: Throughout the text we can see the presence of many literary traditions of early Aegisian people, for example the presence of the evocation to the prophetic future which would be brought to realisation by Exalted Godfrey, and in the end we see the hope for the future once more presented, as a cap-stone of the Song of Miriam. Intermixed with the narrative presented we see various evocations to the Creator, beseeching the deity for various spiritual and earthly gifts, which in the original text follows the scheme of a Oyashimese Haiku. In the narrative portions the text follows the usual Conomoric Hexameter style of Aaunic sung poetry. Interestingly the script is devised in such a way that it seems to create a pattern, likely combining elements of local folk witchery into the text itself, though the exact nature of this would-be spell is unknown to me. Now, the triumphal stele names many different people, one of which is the woman who commissioned this inscription, or had it commissioned for her: Miriam. She is the central figure, and yet her relationship with the King of Aaun, Caius I, is unclear. The text uses the word “bound” when describing their relationship, which to me indicates that they were not wed, rather she was a concubine of his. This raises the question of her relationship with Caius I’s son, Caius II. According to the current scholarship on ancient Aaunic legal customs (see ‘On the Legal Principles of Aegisian Aaun’ by Frederique de Lilac), the children of concubines stood to inherit only one sixth of their father’s lands. As such no progeny born of concubinage would stand to inherit the crown itself, meaning that Miriam, instead of placing one of her own children as King, she supported Caius II, known to be disfigured, a fact that the text does not hide. Why that would be is a mystery as very little is known of these times. Mayhaps she never bore any sons to her husband, or for some reason or another she decided it would be best to side with her master’s son. Indeed, that decision seemed to be wise, as after the victory of Caius II it appears she received extensive powers, so much so she was allowed to raise a commemorative stele in honour of the victory which she claimed as her own. The history relayed in the stele itself proves rather interesting, for the forces of Miriam are categorised as righteous and God-fearing, whilst the forces of Rhederid are depicted as dark, conniving and evil. We must, of course, take this categorisation with a grain of salt. All of the actions described as evil that Rhederid’s men commit are, by enlarge, normal behaviours displayed by rulers when war breaks out. Soldiers will pillage, and the local towns and settlements must bear the financial burden in order for their liege lord to win. If we are to condemn these actions as uniquely evil then we must also do the same to other figures of our history, like many of the Exalted. The presence of the priest Janus is also telling. The text refers to him as a ‘priest of a false sacrament’, yet why that is is unknown. Therefore it is difficult to say to what degree this religious figure was actually wicked or if this is nothing more than petty name-calling. To me, it seems, that the level of iniquity the other side of this civil war displayed is highly exaggerated by the victors, and that the stele is, when it comes to the depiction of the losing side, propaganda. The aspects shown of the local religion are also quite interesting. There are very clear signs of pre-canonist Creatorism, with mentions of tabernacles, holy fires, sacrifices and grapes of the sacrament. It seems that in pre-canonist Creatorism these archaic religious practices were still practised, and we can see evidence of that in the Scroll of Virtue and Scroll of Gospel, wherein the Tabernacle of Horen and the Wine of Sacrament are mentioned. Though I am no theologian or religious scholar it seems to me that these ancient religious liturgies were much more complex than contemporaneous Canonist services, often presenting in the form of the national cultus, where worship of the Creator was necessary to preserve the nation. All in all it is with great luck that we had a copy of the text even if the steel itself did not withstand the march of time, likely now under the seas that consumed Athera. Through the Song of Miriam we get a snapshot of the often mysterious past of the early Aegisian period, something which even the oldest of elves have not lived through.

"No elven missus in me church!" Barked Basil "Big Bazza" Hawthorn, native Esbecer, proud Risorgimentist, adunian hater, and Creatorist Puritan. "Dem Malinor lasses too busty to be trusted. That's why I married me own plain lookin' missus, as the good lord Godfrey intended, simple as."

In a distant isle, smelling of horse sweat and fresh milk, a dervish twirled around a sacred pyre made of myrrh and thornbushes. "Heydar, heydar..." He breathed out in ecstasy.

A certain deacon of Carnatian descent smoked a pipe in his celestial yurt. Something stirring within the Skies caught his attention, and in a desplay of saintly celerity he moved in a flurry, shoving away pesky Aenguls with their trumpets and unseen Daemons. The man stuck his head betwixt the clouds of the Seven Skies, looking down at Oren. Seeing a ship depart he managed to make out the grey-haired woman upon said ship. "Ah, old Celestine has gone adventuring I see!" Stephen exclaimed, puffing on his pipe, he tipped his brown skullcap to her, popping his head back from under the clouds. "I'll have to see if they have one of those elven tea blends for when she joins us here."

"This valah's poem certainly reminds me of my own when I was a youth of 60." The wandering elf, Lucius, nods, remembering his youth times in Siimah'sul, ink stained fingers admiring his errant work.

"Why do these cultists always burn down cathedrals? Ateast get an original idea." Comments Lucius, arms crossed, as he gazes at the burning building.

"I HATE THE ANTI-HOREN I HATE THE ANTI-HOREN I HATE THE ANTI-HOREN I HATE THE ANTI-HOREN I HATE THE ANTI-HOREN!" Screeches Basil "Big Bazza" of Esbec, proud Risorgimentist, anti-adunian, empire hater and maniac as he clutches his prayer beads in fervent prayer, pouring out libations of pub ale for the success of the Pontiff.

"'Em priests got too much to drink, ey. Tha's why I ain't go to church no more. All this church nonsense, pah. Got me readin' me scrolls, King Johannes Version o'course. If it be good 'nuff for Horen it be good 'nuff for me, I say." Replies Basil "Big Bazza" Hawthorn, proud Esbecer, anti-adunian and free thinker.

"What the fook is a fascism?" Queries Basil "Big Bazza" Smith, a now homeless New Esbecer, proud Risorgimentist and adunian hater. "Bloomin' dagger ears and theys made up words. Ain't racist just don't like 'em."

Somewhere a withering Rhenyari bows his head.

"Hmpht." Within the walls of Kaer'Lassar a bald headed cleric felt a itch on the back of his head. A letter from Gwynon, Brother Jaegor had signed it. Raymond opened it silently. In dark-grey ink it simply read; 'Griffith is dead'. The man who had torn him from his grief stricken mother all those years ago, and placed him in his tormenting life in Ulmsbottom, only to command him to come to Almaris, to live a tormented life here. He did not know what to say or do, the wren stood by the window watching. Raymond decided on a simple prayer for his uncles soul, disregarding his conflicting feelings for a second, though it was only a mere second. He spent the rest of the day brooding.

I have no money, would you be willing to trade for livestock instead?

"How 'bout instead of begetin' gold ye beget some wenches?" Asks Father Ray aloud as he read the thesis, before going back to strumming his ban-joh.

"Yam nie half-dwed!" Cursed Odovacar the Dunnfolk gnome amidst his under-tree warren.

THE JOURNEY Heavenly Father: We pray to You for those on the perilous ocean That You will embrace them with your mighty protection And grant them success in all their rightful undertakings. Grant them in all hours of need to see That they have a God who remembers them, And grant them grace in the hour of danger To commit their souls into Your hands. Amen. The sea roared and thrashed, men heaved rope while others the contents of their innards. Raymond was in the latter group. He held fast, cranium shoved tightly ‘gainst the linen of his swaying hammock, purge-filled bucket by his side. God’s wrath was upon them. Waves struck the wooden frame of the whaling ship, rain buffeted the deck, lightning crackled. It was as if the Sea itself was against their enterprise, grieving the loss of its children. Raymond had no mind for poetic anthropomorphisms. He had been on this damned ship for a fortnight and he had spent those fourteen days ill and vomiting. He was never fond of the sea. The Savoyard had been born in an isle, true, but the amount of time he swam, much less went on a boat, could be counted on one hand, using two fingers exactly. He hated it. The continous drone of a Gwynonese pibgorn mingled with the singing of the sailors irked him. Could a man not rest? They sung in their ***** language. Raymond had nigh forgotten his childhood dialect, a cousin to Gwynonese. The sound of a familiar song began to ring in the underhalls of the ship, a song his own mother used to sing to him when he was but a poor babe. “Ble rwyt ti'n mynd? meddai Rhisiart wrth Robin, Ble rwyt ti'n mynd? meddai Dibyn wrth Dobyn, Ble rwyt ti'n mynd? meddai John, Ble rwyt ti'n mynd? meddai'r Nefar Biond,” His mind could not decipher the ditty, it rang inside his head like a cavernous sigh. Yet, in its unfamiliar familiarity he found residual comforts. Of happier times. Sitting by a comfortable fire, running across green pastures. Of warm nights and rainy days. Raymond’s fever stricken mind fell into a melancholic sleep. Being pulled into a different realm, away from cold reality and into the warm embrace of the world of dreams, of different ages, different memories. Light linens, petrichor, warmth. A mother and a father. A soft mattress. A babbling babe. A sleeping hound. Peace. Comfort. Heaven. The flame-haired mother singing, the child cooing, the father laughing. Peace. Comfort. Heaven. The father raising the child up, the child smiling, the mother kissing the babe. Peace. Comfort. Heaven. The babe crawling, the dog running, the mother sewing, the father working. Joy. The mother placing the babe in the cradle, the black haired father reaching down, the child grasping his finger. Happiness. The mother sings, the father listens, the dog sleeps. “Mynd tua’r coed, meddai Rhisiart wrth Robin, Mynd tua’r coed, meddai Dibyn wrth Dobyn, Mynd tua’r coed, meddai John, Mynd tua’r coed, meddai'r Nefar Biond,” A knock upon a door. An inquisitive look. A black haired child approaching and opening the door. A rain-drenched man with a sullen face and dark eyes; “Where be yer mother, lad?”. A sudden rush from a servant woman, whisking away the black haired child to a room. Confusion tinged with fear. An old hound by the black haired child’s feet, grey and aged. A broad room, decorated plainly, toys scattered, a statue of a saintess holding the Owynchild. A window revealing dark and brooding clouds. A door, left ajar. The black haired boy tip-toed onwards, listening, looking. The sullen man removed his cap; “The esquire, mistress…”, a downcast look, sudden wordlessness, “...he be dead.”. The crack of a slap, the flame-haired mother, furious, confused. “Liar!”, a shrieking shout, “He cannot! You were supposed to look after him! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO LOOK AFTER HIM DAMN YOU!” Sobbing, the flame-haired mother caressing her child. The black haired child confused, missing his father, grasping the old hound. Foul winds screeching ‘round the manse. Coarse rain pelting the glass of the windows. The flame-haired mother, singing… “Be wnei di yno? meddai Rhisiart wrth Robin, Be wnei di yno? meddai Dibyn wrth Dobyn, Be wnei di yno? meddai John, Be wnei di yno? meddai'r Nefar Biond,” A dark household. The scent of funeral incense and of burning wax. The sad face of a saint. A bereaved mother and wife, grief-stricken, driven mad. A black haired boy, head bowed before the funeral pyre, wept. Two matrons consoled the starved mother. The mad mother wailed. The mad mother did not look upon the face of the black haired boy. The black haired boy did not weep for the dead-man, he weeped for the dead mother. A flame-haired man placed his hand upon the dead mother’s shoulder; “Worry not, Mery, the brothers of Saint Lucien will care for him.”, an assurance hidden in half-truths. The dead mother nods, handkerchief to her green eyes. The flame-haired man approaches the black haired boy; “Raymond, son, you’ll be coming with me.”, a smile, feigned, “Your father is in God’s hands now, the good prophet shall care for him, hm?”, the black haired boy did not utter. A golden wren chirped. A bouncing carriage, a sleeping uncle, a sad child. The winding road. The green hills. The sad-bright sky. The bleating sheep. A bright hamlet passing by, a spinster spinning, a young boy playing, a shepherd praying, a new mother singing… “Hela'r dryw bach, meddai Rhisiart wrth Robin, Hela'r dryw bach, meddai Dibyn wrth Dobyn, Hela'r dryw bach, meddai John, Hela'r dryw bach, meddai'r Nefar Biond,” The white sun, circling overhead. Mad. A cluster of trees and bushes, thorns, ripping apart the flesh of the black haired youth. A clearing. Men strung upon a great ashen tree, Half naked augurs and sorcerers chanting, dancing and bathing in the men’s blood. A black haired youth, being ripped from his robes, made to join the sun-priest’s dance. A black haired youth looking up, recognizing faces. A black haired father, a murdered lord, a drowned king, a crusading priest, a half-pagan patriarch. The black haired youth dancing upon their spilt blood, his own blood, chanting the ancient songs of the sun. A great darkness, ascending. The mad sun ceasing. The earth quaking. The men scattering. A great flame appears, setting the ashen tree to flame. The black haired father, the murdered lord, the drowned king, the crusading priest, the half-pagan patriarch, looking down from the highest skies. A great cavalcade, breaking the brambles, stampeding upon the sun-priests. An imperious figure, bearing a regal sword brings it down upon the black haired youth. Trembling, the black haired youth falls onto his knees. From the sword’s tip a robin springs, flying into a black haired youth’s hands. The imperious figure’s maw opens as if to shout, instead, it sang... “Be wnei di yno? meddai Rhisiart wrth Robin, Be wnei di yno? meddai Dibyn wrth Dobyn, Be wnei di yno? meddai John, Be wnei di yno? meddai'r Nefar Biond,” Stale air. A cavernous room. Moans of pain and suffering. The smell of mold and dried blood wafting, like incense before the chapel’s altar. A shattered man, neck around a nose, sobbing. A priest, reading the shattered man’s last rites. A oyashimese swordmaster, solemn. “Amen.”, rang the priest’s words, their finality hitting the shattered man, his wailing growing louder. “Do it, Novice Ashford.”, commanded the priest, eyes beset upon the black haired youth. A huff, a pause, a nervous sigh, a boot upon the stool that held the dead man from the grasp of death, a push, a loud crack as rope became taut. Apathy. The oyashimese swordmaster brings out his blade. Sadness. The oyashimese swordmaster readies himself as the dying man struggles for air. Coldness. The oyashimese swordmaster brings his sword towards the man’s frame, cutting him in twain. Pain. The dead man draws his last breath, guts and viscera hanging from his abdomen. Death. A warm summer’s day. A closed cloister. Bees surrounding followers. Monks walking passed underneath shaded alcoves. A black haired youth, sitting upon a bench. Feeling nothing. Seeing nothing. Hearing nothing. “You did good, young Raymond.”, shallow, empty praise. “We will make a true brother out of you just yet.”, a nod from the black haired monk. A black, cold cell. An empty and barren room. A black haired monk kneeling before a flickering flame. “Lord, why do you remain so far away? Why must you hide, when I beseech you every day? Why? Why?! WHY?!” A shout and a slam, the flickering flame withers. A sob. A wave of melancholic sadness, the black haired monk holds his face within his palms. “Why did my mother go mad? Why did she leave me here to rot? Why am I not dead? Why am I here?” A soft chirp from the window, a wren sings, flying towards the rising sun… “Lladd y dryw bach, meddai Rhisiart wrth Robin, Lladd y dryw bach, meddai Dibyn wrth Dobyn, Lladd y dryw bach, meddai John, Lladd y dryw bach, meddai'r Nefar Biond,” A cursed morning. A sorrowful feeling. A haunting sight. The smell of chrism, the feeling of a razor upon skin, the fallen hair cluttering ‘round the feet of the Abbot, the oil soothing inflamed skin. The shorn-headed monk ordained. The shorn-headed priest looked upwards, a statue of the Prophet smiling. Misery and pain. A sunnier cell. A pyre-shrine. A dirge of a psalm being sung. A shorn-headed priest reading. A sad man weeping. A sigh and a wheeze. Green eyes cast towards the window, silence and thought. “What now, Owyn, hm?” The shorn-headed priest queried, voice ringing aloud within the stone walls. “I am one of yours, like Evaristus and Clement, what now? Am I to service the scum of the earth here within these walls? Am I to light fires ablaze and preach your Spirit? I am your slave, against my will, what now?” Silence. “Have you gone mute? After God commanded you to bite your tongue in your uncle’s court and you disobeyed Him, now you choose to be silent?” A sardonic smile, another sigh, a brusque turn, a look of hatred, “Say something useful for once.”, a whimper, “Say something. Answer me. ANSWER ME DAMN YOU!” spittle flies out towards the roaring flame of the pyre-shrine, “It would be the least you could do.” A wren knocking upon a window. A stirring priest awakening. A sudden knock at the door. A sealed letter. A briar tree stamped ‘pon the wax. An invitation. A command. The Prophet smiled. “A'i hebrwng e gartref, meddai Rhisiart wrth Robin, A'i hebrwng e gartref, meddai Dibyn wrth Dobyn, A'i hebrwng e gartref, meddai, meddai John, A'i hebrwng e gartref, meddai, meddai'r Nefar Biond,” Raymond stirred on his cot. Nausea overtook him and he heaved the contents of the other-day’s meal into a half-filled bucket by his side. The prelate opened his eyes, wiping his mouth on a stray linen left by his cot. He coughed and went to fetch water, drinking greedily, extinguishing the fire within his stomach. Raymond coughed again, and swayed on unstable legs up towards the deck, pushing past throngs of people, some shoving, others carrying cargo. The Ashford reached the top of the deck and looked over yonder. A port. Henry’s Wharf. Providence

"Thought this be the Providence Post not the Ildonia Post." Comments Basil 'Big Bazza' Thompson, New Esbec resident and proud Risorgimentist. "Can't foind no propah, non-Adunian, newspapers these days."

Outside the winds howled and a storm blew, making Raymond glad to be inside his monastic cell high a-top one of the towers of the Reformative Monastery of Saint Lucien. He warmed his hands by the small pyre-shrine to Exalted Owyn, glancing over at the copy of the Risorgimentist Manifesto. The young prelate's eyes were cast from the booklet unto the imperious statue of Owyn that stood raising a blazing sword, for a moment Raymond thought he saw the icon's eyes wink at him. "Truly, Owyn, the graces that you shower 'pon my uncle almost make me envious." Raymond glared at the statue with a true Savoyard smirk. "I shall tell the little wren to watch over him for me."

A certain Venerable, Jurgen of Peremont, recalls when he aided a leper-knight. He decides to beseech for the Chiming Bells from the Skies.

Dear brother, I believe you have missed the point of my missive, or mayhaps my rugged mind failed to translate thought into word. My missive was not about abolishing other schools of thought within the Canonist Church. No. Rather, it was both an informative piece on Flamenist thought, Flamenist history and a rallying cry for all Flamenists. It was not about purging the apostate nor beating the sinner, quite the contrary, my main point was merely that the very root of the Flamenist movement is hating sin. Yes, to hate sin is to purge the unrepentant as Exalted Owyn did (Gospel 5:19), but to hate sin is, first and foremost, to hate your own sin, for to hate sin is to love God, and to hate God is to love sin. Mine is not a path of unjustified brutality, unquenchable wrath and sinful hatred. That is not Owyn’s way. Mine is a path of measured severity, disciplines mortification and hatred of what God deems sinful. Truly, brother, you say we should be sweet and gentle, yet I never denied the place of gentility and sweetness, but just as father must be gentle and sweet so too must he not spare the rod. And I am a true Father of all men, and I see that Man has fallen to depravity, therefore I do not bring the candies and pleasures of the earth, but penance and correction. I have lived within the halls of the Reformative Monastery of Saint Lucien here in Ulmsbottom since I was a babe. The dredges of society are handed to us, I have dined with thieves, conversed with murderers and lived amongst the worst parts of mankind. Do you think speaking to them of love and sweetness would do them any good? To men who have never known such things that will simply fall on deaf ears. Truly I tell you: I have doled out my fair share of punishment, never out of hate but out of true love. Many find salvation before they have the opportunity to leave, others are reformed, but all have stayed in the grace of God. Fire keep you, Father Raymond Adhemar de Bar, FSSCT.