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  1. [!] Pinned to the notice board of the Haeseni capital was a single sheet of paper, folded into 4ths and held to the board with a deeply inserted metal pin straight through the middle. It seemed to be in one of the bottom corners, awaiting some soul’s interest to unfurl it and quell their curiosity. The lengthy piece of writing covered the entire front and half of the back of the paper it used, and read the following; 1 mother I have lost wholly. Another makes herself more scarce, decreasing the love she bestows upon humanity with every hour passed. Should I think myself unfeeling, because as I know not which of them pains my heart the more? I fear I know the answer, but it is not of the empathetic kind. Loving and lovely words may describe my own brother and sister, for whom I hold high regard; and for all of us my mother labored tirelessly to bring to life, but hardly are they more impactful than myself, and neither myself than any regular man. It is then, for the histories of man - mother of civilization itself, that my heart whispers sad news to my ear on occasion. What lofty greatness has man achieved by acquiring the knowledge of our ancients, and applying their long beloved arts and philosophies to better our own societies? How many Glorious Majesties have attained grace and honor - through wars been fought with strategy told by those who conquered and overcame before, and what marshal can claim excellence in any forward skill without first committing to the study of how the first men dominated the second men? How many more of you, spectator, have been vexxed to the fullest end; and unable to find solace in the advice of even your closest peers, and in your darkest moment discover your strife’s resolution in a tome of the past?… One whose beloved civilization and author’s body have crumbled all to dust and whispers. Therefore, be it regarded as the greatest ill to have lost a single page or parcel of history in any her forms. For this, my heart rends itself one half from the other and my sorrowful tears flow without cease for every story ended. In the moment when the final witness of the golden epoch has passed on, and the first hearth has survived to the last, and past it, and there, had not any more who could recall the greatness & majesty of it’s flame… then, the dreadful sting of ruin sinks into us all - for the pain of true death has come, and with stunning and complete victory over man, destroyed him beyond life and recognition to never again be revered in all the realms. It is the longevity of our memory which brings honor and eternal reverence. So long as our lineage forever tells our story, so long as our great palaces are immortalized in stone carving or oil paint, so long as each ballad and lullaby is recorded and kept… it is then that the sting of death is yet stayed from us, It is then that we speak to those who come after - with our own voices, more powerful than the loudest warsong - more moving than the most cunning envoy. And for as much as I praise and love my ancestors, I begrudge them of their indilligence. I wish for nothing more than to recreate from every text and paining of the past, the time of my father’s father’s father, and his. Not to walk in their shoes and see life from their eyes, but rather to observe the meaning of their lives to the worlds they lived in, and drowning myself in the focus of that study. Yet every day the sun rises on my collection of the past’s knowledge, and with every setting, another story is forgotten. Let my judgment upon the future nations of man be most harsh and most fair according to this. The foremost virtue of man ought to be the preservation of Holy and Historical text, and their acceptance into the hearts of the citizens. Therefore I will cherish and bless him who’s generation is the final one to keep this, and many other texts in upright condition. Through the virtue of military strength, never being conquered, and through the virtue of prosperous libraries, housing and serving this among so many of the mother’s fruits in form of text and tome, and through the virtue of often and rigorous discourse, keeping the meaning of it all close to the hearts of man for their own sake. For that generation must be regarded as the finest and most worthy among whatever number there be at the time. And for the generation immediately following… they ought to be pitied, though from me they will render only passionate anger. To the extent that if by some stroke of fate my soul should ascend to sainthood, these are they who ought not expect any of my blessings, lest they spend the entirety of their sad lives in waiting; Through their vice of failure in the military profession, having their relics and histories burned, stolen, and forgotten in favor of an empty mindset, or through their vice of disorder, the inability to store their knowledge, and transfer it, to enjoy our mother’s fruits, which are infinite and changing at every moment. Or perhaps, in the saddest fashion one could offer, to abandon the discourse of our past, to shame our ancestors in comparison by refusing to show them due reverence. If there be in 2 centuries from this day, not a single polity of man who can recall and recite the many facts of the reign of Sigismund III, or the vastness in span of the Urguani landscape, anon, even the blood lineage of whatever contemporary king they serve, if it be a king… if none can do this at the allotted time, then may Godan smite from the very depths of land and sea any trace of my sorry soul. If my sons and their sons will deny me life in their time, then I should be content to retire my memories, and live contently in obscurity with my fathers. If this be the case, I should pray that I never contribute a pittance of good to any part, so that the absence of my memory is not to the world of our future, a great loss among so many others. Signed, A.B.
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