Omen13
IRL Visage Worshipper
Blessday, 3rd Day of Floodlock, 2306 - Season of Frost.
In these times of harrowing trial, with dissent in the north between brothers, and Hallon royalty falling out of favor with our God, it is hard to appease my soul. No matter where I turn I am reminded of the dwindling light of Ignis. No shame has come to me that I am a practitioner of the arcane, rather, it is a taste of freedom without precedent. I only wish the minds of my kin could be as unbound, whilst my own expands with immensity. The scarce luminosity of Ignis has brought me to this place, this city of Queensport, where once men of great stature forfeit their lives to the cause of the Anhalder's chosen deity. Long past is the time of Anhald, as we breach the era of Kalstaat and its designation as the superior power in this realm. Perhaps my scribblings from this sunless tavern will breach the path of your ever bolstering knowledge, O Watcher. I have found myself cresting the mountaintop of losing all that is of material and ethereal value. My fiancée. My teacher. My brothers. Even my holdings in Blackrush, now that I am painted to be a dog of Count Asher though I hardly associate with those born to House Varyn. The array of peaks and foothills of Gottland are shrouded in a mist of deceit, vyres dwelling in your shadows and hunting in the night, and monstrosities finding their home in the caverns of the Marien. Is this your will going forth? I know not. I only ask to be enveloped to your fold, not to shine through it as my brothers and people would seek. There is none to be gained from swiping at the reflection of your vast hall of mirrors, as events come to pass and are grasped at like tendrils of smoke. I cannot ask you to speak to me, as you are the one who sees but does not let on. Your tenants and nature invoke in me a primal need to soak in the affairs of my fellow man. I will soon erect a monument to you and mask it from those who would wish it razed. You are seen to be evil. I see you unique. Allow me to be a vicar of your will, and bask in the moonlight of your triumphs, and I shall sow the seed of enlightenment in choice minds who will not cloud it with the petty affairs of heart and emotion. I am not so disturbed with the triviality to be your champion, rather, the grace of being your pawn. Endow me with your wisdom, Visage, and have me undertake the grand task of amassing your acolytes of masquerade.
- Squire Wilhelm Schmidt, Wilhelm von Oren, William of Oren, and all familiar names to be sacrificed to your library of erudition.
In these times of harrowing trial, with dissent in the north between brothers, and Hallon royalty falling out of favor with our God, it is hard to appease my soul. No matter where I turn I am reminded of the dwindling light of Ignis. No shame has come to me that I am a practitioner of the arcane, rather, it is a taste of freedom without precedent. I only wish the minds of my kin could be as unbound, whilst my own expands with immensity. The scarce luminosity of Ignis has brought me to this place, this city of Queensport, where once men of great stature forfeit their lives to the cause of the Anhalder's chosen deity. Long past is the time of Anhald, as we breach the era of Kalstaat and its designation as the superior power in this realm. Perhaps my scribblings from this sunless tavern will breach the path of your ever bolstering knowledge, O Watcher. I have found myself cresting the mountaintop of losing all that is of material and ethereal value. My fiancée. My teacher. My brothers. Even my holdings in Blackrush, now that I am painted to be a dog of Count Asher though I hardly associate with those born to House Varyn. The array of peaks and foothills of Gottland are shrouded in a mist of deceit, vyres dwelling in your shadows and hunting in the night, and monstrosities finding their home in the caverns of the Marien. Is this your will going forth? I know not. I only ask to be enveloped to your fold, not to shine through it as my brothers and people would seek. There is none to be gained from swiping at the reflection of your vast hall of mirrors, as events come to pass and are grasped at like tendrils of smoke. I cannot ask you to speak to me, as you are the one who sees but does not let on. Your tenants and nature invoke in me a primal need to soak in the affairs of my fellow man. I will soon erect a monument to you and mask it from those who would wish it razed. You are seen to be evil. I see you unique. Allow me to be a vicar of your will, and bask in the moonlight of your triumphs, and I shall sow the seed of enlightenment in choice minds who will not cloud it with the petty affairs of heart and emotion. I am not so disturbed with the triviality to be your champion, rather, the grace of being your pawn. Endow me with your wisdom, Visage, and have me undertake the grand task of amassing your acolytes of masquerade.
- Squire Wilhelm Schmidt, Wilhelm von Oren, William of Oren, and all familiar names to be sacrificed to your library of erudition.
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