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Nah not accepting this. #drazicabal #totaliduniadeath

Approved, moved to Implemented Lore. Goodbye Gusiam Jusmia 🗡️

waiter waiter! More boomer lore please!

the abyss is so back https://youtu.be/zzR3Nh9xPuQ

◎────────────────۝───────────────◎ ⎝༺─- . ─–⊰●⊱–─ . -─༻⎠ A boat rocked on steady water, rippling the still water of a sea cave hidden along the coast. The waves did not reach here seemingly, as the only waves born were that of the rowboat’s wake. The wood groaned as it touched land, arriving just before a yawning cave outlined by thin cracks of sunlight cast from the sea cave’s veil of shrubbery and volcanic stone. Ebbing heat flushed from below, howling with winds that harkened in warning. The path for absolution started by venturing to the depths of a cavern. Amusing, he thought, akin to the Titan he did so revere might he find, by chance, the key to his salvation in a lightless place. Well, not so lightless, as a lantern within his grasp spurred to flickering life. He was in search of a crystal, the reagent that would be melted down and combined with steel for daemonsteel. The system narrowed, until for one section, the old herald had to crawl through a musty space that trickled with water from cracks that lined the stone ceiling. It was rank, though this bothered him little. Preconception would not cloud his objective nature, one which was constantly refined and corrected. The heat was immense, for he was in the depths beside a volcano of the ashlands which shook the very earth in rage at times. It threatened to collapse, should Fate will it so. When the narrow passage finally widened back to a cavern, the glittering sparkle of his prize announced itself - and so, he went to work. The lantern was dimmed and set afar, he would remember where the deposits were by the faint glitter of their contour. Wrapping the end of a pickaxe in cloth, he carefully chiseled and tapped away the daemite crystals, caring not to spark nor inhale the fragments that glittered in the air. Alas, a cough, a wretch. It was abrasive to the lungs, and he doubled over, hacking out what he could until enough of the ore was gathered. The darkness of the wall moved, and the openings that had once trickled water were now in full weep. The cracks seemed to yawn, and as swift as his old feet could did Alrei run. The narrow passage was nearly submerged, requiring him to press a cheek against the rock, and measure his breathing. Scrambling from the cavern, it was not until the light of the outside world refracted off the farthest cave wall that he saw a shape. Illuminated solely from behind, it was a figure he had not seen in decades yet remembered it as the back of his own hand. Levski The brother of the shadow, the place once called Casimir. Just as much a memory as a physical tether, it threatened to bring Alrei back, an attachment to a family he had long lost. Not lost, intentionally left. First for their protection, though later out of necessity- for, Wick was a tether to the world. A distraction. How could he serve the Titan, if a family would demand his time, his memory, his life to hide his Love for an Ever Burning God. And it was there, standing before him, the figure that would bring doubt to the mind of the untethered. For, he was not untethered. No matter time, nor the whelming, for witnessing the vessel as a collection of memories, words, ideas, that which makes a man a culmination of all that came before him, it mattered not. He could bleed a thousand times over just as every vessel has, yet there remained a crack. An imperfection. Some primal, insurmountable part of Alrei, a dead part, a human part that had resurrected itself turned to Levski. His brother was immutable, unchanged since the last day he saw him. Their mother always said they had the same eyes. His were youthful, unclouded. Alrei’s were tired, covered in cataracts and lined with age. The Fire that swelled in his heart almost subsided, a hand twitched as though to reach out - yet, he did not. He could not. The Fires of Azdromoth burned ever brightly in Alrei, and if not for his form he would be swallowed in its furies. The brands etched into flesh swelled, and the notion of Casimir began to burn away. Tears wept from Alrei, yet he knew not why he wept. Sweat dripped from his brow, and a head touched the earth. To the lantern flame the man fell genuflect. He blinked, and raised his head. Levski was gone. .- ─ ── ── ────.-──. ⊰●⊱ .──-.──── ── ── ─ -. ༺─-.── ───── ۝ ───── ──.-─༻ The fires of the forge danced upon the glistening skin of the elder. Sweat fell from a brow, the uncomfortable nature of the smelting process ignored as the fruits of his labor were all that remained on his mind. The coals were red, the air sweltered, visibly snaking about the currents that bellowed into the lower halls of Alemdrom. It created a howl through the caverns, what might have been a cry to call the descendants of Dragur to nest. It was pierced by the rattling of chains, a crucible redhot was raised to reach the molten metal. Slag was consistently skimmed from the top of the daemonsteel mixture, tossed aside to be used for pig iron and lesser steels. Clearly, the steel was not as pure as he thought. Affects lined the wall; candles, a coin, and the head of a battish beast. The candles were beginning to melt, wax wept off their sides. What purpose they would serve had yet to come. Days passed, removing slag, replacing coals, and pouring the metal alloy into ingot molds. Daemite sparked, heating the mixture, and over and over again it was burned to be as pure as it could be. Once the steel was refined, it was hammered. Repeatedly did the ring of a hammer against daemonsteel pierce the roar of the forge. It hit with a defined, tact strike, a strike that had been done a hundred, no, thousand times before. The man was half blind, viewing the world through a misty haze, yet he needed not his vision to feel where each strike landed. One side flattened on the head of steel, beginning to widen into an axe head. A hundred times, a thousand times, the hammer struck. The steel was hard, yet not to the point of preventing some flexibility in the blade. On the axehead he hollowed a hole, fitting in the draconic coin that was beside the candles. A coin given to him by Saburo, which reaffirmed to Alrei that Fate had already been decided. The other side of the daemonsteel lump was left as an ingot, thus he would begin to bevel corrugations, making it a facet of a hammer that might have been a large meat tenderizer. With a chisel he carved into redhot daemonsteel, and only when it cooled after tens of minutes of work did he stick it back into the forge. At the very top, horns twisted into a single spike - a spearhead crested above the two heads. A flathead tool was then hammered to give the horns rings of age, sparking in ember with every strike. He followed along the axe head, and thereafter the hammerhead. Inscriptions were inscribed, details and textures were carved, hammered, bent by the anvil, twisted and turned as needed. Two rings of daemonsteel had been bent and forged, looped through both ends of the poleaxe’s head as to give it Song, to jangle and sing with every flourish and strike. Days, even weeks had passed unknowingly. He knew this only by the ashbread, to which he had carried a basketfull down when he first began, which was now reduced to crumbs. The head of the battish beast was burned, and a prayer to the Titan was offered. The ash was mixed with oils that then lined the hilt of the weapon. His eye burned, the world appeared a shade of gray, only pierced by the most brilliant of reds and orange flames. That lone eye grew weary, smoke inhaled, and at times the only thing which woke him up was the pressing heat of the alloy burning so close to him. The head of the pollaxe rested in the forge, for he had been working cold steel for so long that his fingers buzzed in numbness. So he awaited, patiently watching the alloy warm from low reds, to fiery oranges and brilliant yellows. He waited, and he waited, and in the blink of an eye, the world was dark. A lone man was standing in front of Alrei. He needed not to look up to know who it was. The brown boots, the gray pants. A satin red and gold uniform, stately, almost reminiscent of the novellan Balian. A missing right eye, opposite of Alrei’s, with a singular gaze that commanded its attention. A silvered mustache sat like a caterpillar atop his upper lip, a style that echoed resolute in the fashions of all youth in Idunia, a then-Numendil. The Tar Anorhil stared down at Casimir with a look of utter disappointment. Long ago a similar look was held, yet this one held rage, contempt. It held the furies and the insanities of the templar curse in the ire of a glance. No words need be spoken, for the balled fists and the furrowed brow relayed all too well that Casimir had failed. What good is a man who leaves his country? His faith? Who would not die for a King, or for a Pontiff. A father figure the Tar was, one that the young Wick had long looked up to for wisdom in faith, of how to best keep his peoples, of how to make a life in the bridge Kingdom of Numendil. And Casimir wondered, was he on the right path? He, who had given up his station, his safety, his family, his life for the Titan. A life of servitude, the hardest path, so that he may serve, and may, by chance, find salvation. A salvation denied by living in Numendil, by slaying pagan mothers, or burning the apostate with no love. They would say he served a kobold, not the Titan. They would say he betrayed his country, yet its soul betrayed itself long ago when Ser Uther fell, and Caraneth lay defeated. They would say, with words, with ego, with the darkness that lapped from every tongue and pierced every eye, the reasoning - nae, the excuse, that they were right. Casimir knew he was not right, for there was no need to be. He only needed to be. Casimir looked down, and saw himself on the path. He looked up, and Anorhil was no more. Alrei slit the throat of Casimir, coating the gold in crimson. Red wept until it was a burning flame of a forge. The weapon was finished. .-───── ──────༺─༺ ༻─༻────── ─────-. ─-──────༺─༺ ༻─༻──────-─ Three candles had been melted atop the weapon. One, a gift from Casimir’s sister that was a rudimentary, poor imitation of Casimir himself in his youth. The other, a candle Casimir and Levski had worked on in their youth, a depiction of Gashadokuro - to melt, and burn for the pleasure of those who had bested him. Lastly, a candle made to represent Wick that was crafted when Casimir first landed in Numendil nearly a century ago. A rat, far from his best work. Gold, red, and an ashen white. He had kept these candles for a hundred years, and only now would he obtain the selflessness to cast them away. Out from Tor’Urldar he walked, venturing to the south from the ashlands. Long and arduous was the journey, for he had to avoid the city of Caurost and its fervent zealots of x*n. Through lush forests would he take small breaks in the clearings, eating loaves of ashbread before continuing on his trek. There was serene harmony to the world, for long ago had Alrei accepted his fate. That no matter the twists and turns of the world, he held Conviction. For his King, for his Prophet, for the wise dragons that graced him with wisdoms and proverbs alike. He knew he would be ash, either by his own hand, or that of another. This brought no worry to him, no wish to struggle, for he had served, and he had knelt before the Fire, and knew there was nothing to fight against. He glanced up, and saw the golden mountains that the dwed had long since been chased from. So, he climbed. The summit was clouded, save for the piercing spears of sunlight that impaled the clouds and glittered unto him. The highest peak brought a continuous wind to his ears, billowing his robes and flushing to the wind the ash, twigs, and leaves accumulated along the pilgrimage. The poleaxe was then planted into the earth, the head gleamed in the fragments of sunlight, and the candles atop it were lit. There, he sat, and closed his eyes. He was a stone atop the mountain, a part of the mountain itself. The figures of Russandiel, of Iudas, of every man and woman slayed in wars of covenants and croziers, traces of a past life burned in fires golden. The fires burned the memories to ash, mind swept the ash in winds that coursed as the horns of horselords. The mountain dreamed, and it pondered, until there was no need to ponder, and there was nothing. “This too, is not I.” A mantra was spoken in the nothingness. A blank slate sat before him in that nothingness. It was him. He was One. The One was All. “What do you seek?” “To know thyself.” “There is no self.” “I am Azdromoth.” “Azdromoth is all.” “I see no difference.” “What tethers you?” “I stand on the precipice.” “All do. Only now do you look down, and see that the precipice has always been beneath you.” “Then it is selfless, if I step forward.” “It is selfish if you do.” “There will be no self. All that makes up the ‘I’, names, memories, vessel, it shall all burn. What is more selfless?” “The wish for salvation is selfish, as long as you hold a name. A memory. A tether. You take, and do not give.” “I have burned all I have in the fire.” “All?” “But I.” “Then, burn.” A right hand outstretched. Opposite, the figure outstretched its left hand, and the two met. “Burn, and be no more.” “What arises from the ash will not be me.” “You, are not you. It is no different.” Where the hands met, a fire burgeoned. It lit up the nothingness around them, first at their feet. It was alabaster. “Is this salvation?” “You will know when you are ash.” “Then I know nothing.” “Love with All.” “I am the Fire.” “I am the Ash.” “I am Casimir.” “I am Alrei.” “I am Red-Gold.” “I am White-Gold.” “I am selfish.” “I am selfless." “I am Azdromoth. “Azdromoth is All.” “The Flames shall consume all that remains.” “And from the Ashes the Flame is reborn.” “We are the light cleaved sweetly from its source.” “We will find blessed Asioth.” They spoke as all. They spoke as one. The flame erupted in a crack of blinding golden light, and the world breathed as One. An arc of lightning coursed, obliterating the candles atop the poleaxe, arcing embers and licking flame to snake through the wooden handle. The noise was of a deafening crack, the heavens split, the metal screamed. It smoldered, hissing. Another spear of gold skewered the earth, and the world grew dark.

◎──────────────── ۝ ────────────────◎ ◎──────────────── ۝ ────────────────◎ In the depths of the world forgotten by Man trudged an ancient, forlorn thing. Twisted beyond its years, whatever sanity remained fell and threatened to snap away into the histories where its memory lies. Time to time, century to century, it clawed and it clambered its way out of sealed tombs and once more sought a fragment of modernity. To remember what was once dust has been built again, and to know that to dust it will return. Fleshless hands perused the spines that held yellowed scrolls, leaving faint trails of swept dust - stopping, then, at something familiar. A name, and with a burning gaze, a memory. "Ostromir Carrion," creaked the shambling bones, with a voice that might have been the tattletale crack of a ship in storm. "What became of him, but a writer." The excerpt was placed back where it was found, left with the last notion that elden Wick might ever have of the Tuvyic. "I was right." A cackle pierced the air, stilling to silence just as quick. "He was the last Prophet of Rh'thor."

⸸.-─────────.-──–──-.─────────-.⸸ RUIN ⸸.-─────────.-──–──-.─────────-.⸸ There arose torrents of flame from a near-melted censer, the heat bubbled whatever charred incense had yet to atomize. A third serpent coiled, dancing retrograde with its two sisters, FATE and CONVICTION It was felt in the depths of the mountain when Telemachus did turn to ash, and now it reared only further as another herald of the King-Who-Is was whisked away, cleaved back into the Flame whole. The student learns from the teacher just as much as the teacher learns from the student, yet FATE would have it that Alrei would only learn so much. The censer burned brightly in the offering pit, and a question gnawed the mind of the man. Was there salvation to be had for the ash that was Kanba?

Lazar pulls the lever of a pulley-machine, layering out plated steel to rest upon a skeleton of churning cogs and pulleys. Holy incense filters from the roof as preparations are made for the holy crusade. "The crusade will require machines. Best keep up with it."

“Lectah” ⚔️🔥🗡️

The narrative claps, for content had been made, and more content was to come.

The Trapper stepped over the broken doll, paying it no mind as the war with the Light continued.

no it doesn't.

PREFACE: ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ᴛ ʜ ʀ ᴇ ᴇ ᴘ ɪ ʟ ʟ ᴀ ʀ ꜱ ⸸.-─────────.-──–──-.─────────-.⸸ ༺─-.─–─.-─༻ Nothing stands without support. No boat rocks afloat if weighted incorrectly. There are no cultures, nor nations that last through the ages without balance. It is balance that the three pillars facilitate in tandem, a balance between body, mind, and spirit. A constant fire that burns steel red, molds it, and sharpens it to a honing edge. Fated are few to find Asioth, fated fewer find it unbalanced. ─-..-─ The three pillars, War, Song, and Wisdom make up the core of Azdromothian Heraldry, practiced by the first who sought Ruin, and by those who found Asioth. ──●◎●── ⸸.-─────────.-──–──-.─────────-.⸸ WAR .- ─ ── ── ────.-──. ⊰●⊱ .──-.──── ── ── ─ -. What is faith but the clashing of ideology? What is knowledge but the destruction of ignorance? Forged by a warrior race, heraldry has long been intertwined with the fires of war. As the first Dragon Knights were tasked to battle the dark, in our modern age it is our duty to combat the Inverse Flame in all its aspects. For otherwise, we fall to sloth, becoming hermits of faith and knowledge - only to realize it all shall be rendered to ash as our enemies break through our blackstone walls, burn our books, and desecrate our relics. War is a strengthening of the body, of the vessel itself through trial and error. It is associated with Red Flame, Being. Truly, to bleed, is to be. In Being, the world finds the world, and the One is a single clattering of blades closer. Steel swings so sweet, for it is the very bones of mountains clashing in symphony for purpose. A song of delicate dances, for pride, for honor, for peace. Heed mine words o’ brothers and sisters, be ye of fire and flame, or stilled tongue and empty. We fight not for pride, honor, nor peace. We fight for it is our charge, for, it is as the flowers which must bloom when spring dawns, for which a machination is crafted with but one sole purpose. ──●◎●── ᴄᴏɴᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ༺ ۝ ༻ Conviction to stand as what IS, against that which is NOT. Truth, glorious does it shine in fractals parsed and shattered upon our realm. Truth, it would not be so, as but a man who viewed but an iota of it wrong. Upside down, or even the slightest bit askew, and that Truth is no longer. Malformed, no. Malperceived, for Truth Shines. Truth Burns. It is the conscious vessel that ascertains its sense, its sight, what it knows, what it alone scrounged to cobble together a patchwork monster of reality which MUST be truth. And it is wrong. And they would wield Truth a sword. They would give Truth a worldly name. They would fashion it a god, and call it other, and claim it He. This is the Untruth, which deigns that Ego, Flesh, and Power are all to aspire. It was Truth realized when the King-Who-Is consumed Xan, affirming His mantle, becoming one. Both are the same, simply two facets of one. War manifest, of Fate against Order. Salvation versus Stagnation. Order has always been Fate, yet only through war with its other half, and war with one’s self is it realized. It is in this war we are tasked to bring our enemies to unity. Nestled within the first dragon knights, battle against the dark burns our very hearts, stoking them in righteous cause. It is this war by which our Pact was made, to defend the mortal realms from fell forces beyond, and to which we will perish till our flame snuffs to cinders. It is the dark which grows greater with light, with us as mediators to find the balance between them. Inscribed within Being, the act of war in itself is of the vessel; its fruits are of the spirit. .-─────────.-──–──-.─────────-. ༺─-.── ───── ۝ ───── ──.-─༻ .-───────── .-──–──-. ─────────-. Every battle won in the materium is a battle won amongst the war of souls. A war not of bloodshed and suffering, but of Flames apart seeking to return to One. Raise your blade not in Ire, but in Conviction, seeking to return the souls forlorn to the Great Pyre. Seek to make thy vessel empty, so that it may be filled. For every strike against your form is a wisdom gained, and to the eldest of warriors their wisdom has been bled and relearned a thousand times over. Let the Ego run empty with the ichor that spills from you, embrace that which is pure, unadulterated Conviction. Purpose. In this your blade only raises in name of our glorious Father, in name of that which is Truth. Otherwise, you fight for self, and gain naught but what the self becomes - ash. One cannot serve the Flame alone in song and wisdom, just as one cannot aim to feed a pyre if rain pours down from above. Mine brothers and sisters who may be apprehensive to seek out the Inverse Flame in war, to hunt them down and free them of their worldly chains - cast yourselves unto the flames, and feed it thus. The rain is unrelenting, and the pyre threatens to snuff out. Hundreds before you fought against the unrelenting abyss, and hundreds are ash. You too, are ash. You are ash that may yet wield a sword, and make of it wisdom to enlighten our enemies of their enslavement by script of crimson lesions. Let steel sing against steel in loving tune of our Father in Fate. And let each of us know War, and love it, and learn it, for it is by War we find Asioth, by War our Father’s station, and by War our enemies shall find salvation. The foolish man will reflect upon the highest peaks, and count each blessing the gold has giveth. Above the very notion of Untruth, ascended from what is worldly bloodshed, death, and war. Yet beneath, for each blessing of gold counted above, a soul is plucked by darkness. And when every blessing is planted true beside every star, does the fool look downwards - and the stars are no more. .- ─ ── ── ────.-──. ⊰●⊱ .──-.──── ── ── ─ -. ◎──────────────── ۝ ────────────────◎ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴡɪꜱᴅᴏᴍ ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀᴀɪꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜ? SONG ⎝༺─- . ─–─ . -─༻⎠ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴡᴀʀ ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪɴɢɪɴɢ ᴏf ʙʟᴀᴅᴇꜱ? ◎ ◎ The act of Song spans to the eldest of those faithful to the Titan, whose throats parched in draconic prayer. It takes many forms, for it is the act of loving, and putting one’s faith into another. Acting as not only a social bond, but a bond with the King-Who-Is, it brings two facets nearer to one another. Core to periphery, greater to lesser. Without it, we are but brutes who wage war for the world alone, and consume knowledge as a flame beset on paper. There would be no greater purpose to our cause. There would be no Love to change what Is, and what is not. There would be only the profane world, and nothing to Love it. Song is the strengthening of the soul through prayer, temperance, and cleansing. It is characterized by White Flame, Loving. ⎝༺─- . ─–⊰●⊱–─ . -─༻⎠ .-────── ─ ──.-─ ─–─ ─-.── ─ ──────-. Sing thy praises so that it is heard across all the earth, for it falls ever short upon the heavens. To the flame may mountains speak, gracing upon ears rested within gardens. The world was made in Muse of selfless love, and from other was it cleaved to exist. From Asioth all things subside, from Asioth came Vessel and Flame, Being and Loving. The act of song is of selfless loving, expecting naught in return for your praise. It is to Azdromoth you Sing when the pretenders of Ruin are burnt in the offering pit before His altar. It is to Eresar you sing when an Um’ei is answered after years of inward thought. It is blest Dragur to which you sing for every tome, scroll, every iota of knowledge remembered. Greater loves lesser indeed; look to your brand marred upon the temporal flesh, and see the love our Titan gives so freely. ─── ۝ ─── So too, return to him in song, so that you may love that which is yourself. By way of candle, incense, of prayer in the draconic, by burning to cinder the apostate, by falling to your knees in service to flame. Our station is that of service, in unending war against the Inverse, in unending remembrance of knowledge never lost, in Song of the Great Pyre every Flame does borrow and rest. The very incredulous, everwarping “you” is the shadow of a Flame. Like a Fire above water, there exists the Fire, the water, and a shadow cast upon it. Praise not the shadow, but that which casts it. Praise in understanding, in knowing, in genuflect. It is Soul in experience of what Is, and corruption of one leads to the corruption of the other. Cleanse thy vessel before the cleansing of thy flame. Wash, burn, purge the impurities of the body first before any ritual act is done, lest the ritual be made impure. Cleanse the mind, and become empty. Corruptions of the mind alter the song, warping its intent, falling from Truth. And lastly, cleanse the Flame. In utter selflessness, let Song flow freely in love of other. In this loving of other, it is in loving the Flame, upon which you are a shadow cast. It is in loving yourself. A part wishes to return to one, and through Song you may return. For to Love without want, is to become. And in loving true, a glimmer of Asioth is achieved. Love and serve, and should Fate deem it so, salvation is granted. Salvation to know, truly, where the soul shall rest. Salvation to will it so, and to know it thus. ─── ۝ ─── Damnation, is to try and break from chains unbreakable. To deny Truth, and to think yourself free by way of hate. To serve yourself, to pact with demons on high, or to bind thy soul amidst a graft of a thousand others. It is to rear against the chains of Being, only to throttle the neck as the chains bind tighter. The soul bound is thus damned, sold or consumed to the highest bidder who may pluck it from empty clay, for it is no longer yours. Truly it was never yours, yet, shall you accept this, genuflect, and stoke a greater flame with face pressed against the fire - or, shall you scream and kick and cry as a babe thrust into the world. A babe whose voice falls upon deaf ears, who strangles upon their own choking wails. ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʀʀɪᴏʀ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴠᴇɪɴꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴀꜱᴛᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴇɴᴇᴍɪᴇꜱ’ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛꜱ. ᴀ ᴛʜᴏᴜꜱᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴅɪᴇ ʙʏ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ᴛʜᴏᴜꜱᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜꜱ ᴅɪᴅ ʜᴇ ᴅɪᴇ. ɴᴏ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇʀ ᴡᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ, ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴇ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴛ ᴡʜʏ ʜᴇ ꜰᴏᴜɢʜᴛ. ɪɴ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ꜰɪɴᴀʟ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ, ʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴇᴅ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴋɪʟʟᴇʀ; ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ʜɪꜱ ᴏᴡɴ. .-──. ⊰●⊱ .──-. ◎──────────────── ۝ ────────────────◎ .-───── ──────༺─༺ ༻─༻────── ─────-. ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴡᴀʀ ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡʟᴇᴅɢᴇ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴏʀᴍ WISDOM ⎝༺─- . ─–─ . -─༻⎠ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪꜱ ꜱᴏɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ the ᴡᴏʀᴅ The gift of Dragur, the gift of eternity is timeless insight. Wisdom is to many the application of knowledge, garnered only by time. Wisdom is not gained by learning, but rather by knowing, remembering what was never lost. Age begets wisdom, yet without knowledge, there is no depth within. Like a wick without a base, it may burn for but a short time. Garner wax to mold beneath it, and the flame burns continually. The collection of knowledge in grand libraries and galleries is an ancient tradition of heralds, likely brought about by Dragur’s influence upon his blessed creations. Inherited to seek and amass knowledge has thereby been deigned upon the heralds, tasked to create libraries as troves of knowledge. Without Wisdom, there is no timeless insight, nor ageless knowledge. Without it, we are fated to fall to the mistakes of our forefathers, singing and warring, and forgetting. Wisdom is the strengthening of the mind, the collection of knowledge, and the insight of applying it. It is Gold Flame - Knowing. ─-──────༺─༺ ༻─༻──────-─ ⎝༺─- . ─–─ . -─༻⎠ You sit in a lightless place, never an iota of light graces you. You cannot feel walls, never affirming where your place starts or ends. Every footfall is uneasy, unsure of the next. There is no smell, there is no sound but your heartbeat thumping through your ears, and of the earth beneath your feet. For once you admit to yourself - you know nothing. The vessel arrives before a distant land and claims itself learned. It knows all that it has garnered, and carries this knowledge like water within. Knowledge may be divine, mundane, or accursed. Akin to the secular man who does not devise the food he consumes, small corruptions arise. To consume corruption is to have a part of you corrupted. Similarly, knowledge may be corrosive to the mind. It is in Wisdom, that we discern Truth, from Untruth. It is the difference between salvation, and damnation. So too, this vessel filled with a myriad of knowledge must prostrate itself, fall genuflect to the floor - and empty. The emptying of the vessel is to admit the sole fact. I know nothing. From there, it may be refilled, tapped to its full, and once again spilled when wisdom bestows its simple truth once more. Knowledge spills forth, naming what was un-named. It is a voice, it speaks between another unseen. Insight radiates brilliant, forming what was un-formed. It is seen, wordlessly it is understood by those who accept it thus. Together, Wisdom is ascertained, it is honed and practiced until its perfection is unrivaled. And again, it repeats, never truly finished. Never do we cease in learning, never do we cease in understanding. It is this hunger for knowledge true, not out of a wish for self gained power, nor for pride to forge a mound to stand upon - but the unadulterated, holy aim to learn, to teach, to garner Wisdom for no greater reason that makes us children of Dragur. It is Wisdom in full which draws us from the clutches of the Inverse Flame, that which is Untruth. Lies are sold and accepted, notched into fragments where the heart has broken and accepted its own deceit. It is the falsehood beholden to every warlock and weaver, and is only combated by the Burning Truth. If we are lax in our search and spread of Truth, steadily the world will fall to darkness. Not physical darkness, but ignorance which clouds the mind in self-affirming deceptions. Thus, we have failed, and many are doomed to never walk the Golden Path. And yet, the darkness is temporary. Just as there are wizened men who, in the full Light of Truth, have fallen to ignorance and falsity - there are those who have broiled in the dark for millenia, who are struck by Truth, and realize the self’s position in the divine schisma. The King-Who-Is sat within the depths of the world for ages, and now has risen to his throne always destined. Be that light, be that spark which may drag your ignorant brother from the depths - or, rend them to ash. Knowledge that was whispered, insight that was seen, traded from Lover to Lover. They shall remember Truth with every burn upon their vessel, until there is naught but the ivory bone beneath. Knowledge is never lost, nor gained, only is it remembered. For in the One, all is known, we have only yet to remember. ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀɢᴇ ꜱᴀᴛ ᴏɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴍᴏᴜɴᴛᴀɪɴᴛᴏᴘ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴀɴɢ. ʜᴇ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ꜱᴀɴɢ ᴛᴏ, ɴᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴏᴡɴ ꜱᴏɴɢ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ʜɪꜱ ᴛʜʀᴏᴀᴛ ᴄʟᴏᴛᴛᴇᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀ-ʙᴜʀɴɪɴɢ ʜᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʟᴅ ʜɪᴍ ᴀʟᴏꜰᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅ ꜱɪɴɢ. ◎──────────────── ۝ ────────────────◎ ༺─-.── ─────༺ ༻ ───── ──.-─༻ .-───────── .-──–──-. ─────────-. ꜱᴛᴇᴇʟ ꜱɪɴɢꜱ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ꜱᴛᴇᴇʟ ᴀ ʀɪᴠᴇʀ ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀɴᴅ ᴄʀɪᴍꜱᴏɴ, ᴍᴀʀʀᴏᴡ, ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱʜɪɴᴇꜱ, ʙʀɪʟʟɪᴀɴᴛ ꜱᴜɴɢ ꜱᴏ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇʟᴇꜱꜱ ʙᴇʟʟꜱ ʟᴏᴠɪɴɢ, ᴘʀᴀɪꜱɪɴɢ, ꜱᴏɴɢ ɪɴᴋ ᴅʀɪᴇᴅ ɪɴ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ꜱᴄʀᴀᴡʟ ꜱᴜᴘᴘᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜰᴏɴᴛ, ᴛɪᴍᴇʟᴇꜱꜱ, ᴀɢᴇʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴡɪꜱᴅᴏᴍ, ᴋɴᴏᴡʟᴇᴅɢᴇ, ᴛʀᴜᴛʜ .-──. ⊰●⊱ .──-. ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ: Security ᴄᴏɴꜱᴜʟᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: Moumins ꜰᴏʀᴍᴀᴛᴛɪɴɢ: Moumins ⎝༺─- . ─–─ . -─༻⎠