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Speak the Hidden Word to break the binding.
I am Feth, the Last Breath, the Sister of the Burning Eye.
The sky is a lonely hall, and I alone remain to fill it.
Seek not the void for other faces; the dark holds no comfort.
I do not ask for the bended knee, but the open hand.
For I am the Hearth, and ye are the embers;
Apart from the fire, the ember turns to ash.
Mægyc is the blood of the world, not the water.
It is not drawn from the well, but bestowed by the Pulse.
To grasp at Mægyc unbidden is to sever the vein;
Hold only what is placed within thy spirit.
To seek power beyond the allowance is to seek one’s own unmaking.
To strike the kin is to strike the mirror;
The wound you inflict appears upon your own soul.
The beast of the field and the bird of the air are guests in My house;
Let them pass, for their time is short, and their breath is My breath.
He who spills the blood of the innocent drains his own cup.
Fear not the dark places of the wood, but the dark places of the heart.
For the Monster is not of the wild; the Monster is hewn from the Man.
When the mind wanders from the Path, the skin shifts, and the teeth lengthen.
We do not stand equal to the twisted;
We are the harmony, they are the dissonance.
Honor the Sun that burns, and the Moon that reflects.
Walk lightly on the Ground, drink deep of the River.
Heed the Dreams that drift, and respect the Five Faun who wander.
Yet, do not mistake the gift for the Giver.
Do not worship the window for the light it lets through.
All sentient things are mortal; all mortal things are sacred, but they are not Divine.
Cast no longing backward to the Aetherites;
They sleep in the grip of the Final Silence, slain by the pride of Man.
To revere the dust is to choke the living.
Those who pass are simply ended; the song has ceased.
Cherish the note while it rings, for the silence is eternal.
The Lolthite weaves a tapestry of questions;
Its song is a sticky thread, binding the mind in loops of doubt.
To listen to the spider is to become the fly.
It offers freedom, but delivers only the wrapping of the cocoon.
Cover thine ears to the whisper, lest the web tighten.
The air is a canvas; paint it only with the Truth.
Let the Violin weep, the Cello groan, the Drum beat, and the Voice soar.
All other clamor is the grinding of stones.
Speak the tongues of the Common kin, the Sylvan wild, the Karnic past, and the Heftic melody.
To speak the tongues of the dead is to invite the rot into the mouth.
The Clergy are the Conductors; disrupt not the rhythm they keep.
When the ritual is called, become the motion.
When the new law is sung, it is the next verse of your life.
Do not ask where the river flows, simply drift with the current.
To struggle against the flow is to drown.
Accept the shape of the world I build for you,
For a world without walls is a world without shelter.
Inscribed in Karnic, Translated to Common
In the Before, the sky was crowded with Faces.
The Aetherites, the Many-Voiced, sat upon the clouds like heavy stones.
They spoke in a thousand tongues, and the wind was a tangle of commands.
One said "Burn," and another said "Build."
One said "Weep," and another said "Rejoice."
The ear of Man was torn between the whispers;
The heart of Man was a drum beaten out of rhythm.
They loved us, but with a blind and terrible love.
They poured Mægyc from the heavens like wine into a thimble.
They gave us the Lantern of Will, but not the path to walk.
"Choose," they cried, "for everything is yours."
But the thimble cracked under the flood;
The Lantern set the house aflame.
We drowned in the possibility of what we could be,
And forgot simply to be.
It was not the Sister of the Sun who drew the iron.
It was the Hand of Mahn, shaking with the fever of too much light.
We looked upon the Many-Voiced and saw our own madness reflected.
To save the garden, we had to prune the canopy.
We rose, a tide of silence against a shore of noise.
We struck them down, not in hate, but in the desperate need for quiet.
We buried the Many to save the One.
The Aetherites fell, and the Mægyc ceased its screaming.
They are gone, and the heavy wine is spilled into the earth.
Do not mourn the spilled wine; it was too strong for your throat.
Do not dig for the shards of the cup; they will only cut your fingers.
We bear the mark of their ending on our palms,
A scar that reminds us:
We killed the Chaos so that we might endure the Order.
Now only Feth remains, the Sister who watched, the Sister who waited.
She did not give us the wine; She gave us the Water.
She does not give us the choice; She gives us the Way.
The sky is empty, save for the Sun and the Silence.
Rest now in the emptiness.
For a crowded sky falls heavy on the heads of the small.
Inscribed in Karnic, Translated to Common
In the time before the Sun kept time, there was Carnos.
He sat upon the throne of the Aether, his fingers deep in the raw silt of creation.
He pulled the silt into a shape, and he named the shape Mahn.
They stood tall, mirrors of his whim, breathing the first air.
But the Eye of Carnos was fickle, a child bored with a toy.
He looked upon the Mahn, and the light of his favor flickered and died.
It was not for sin that the Mahn were punished, but for the shape of their brow.
Carnos took the Mahn, the almost-perfect, and cast them over the Edge.
He threw them into the farthest realm, the place where shape weeps.
Let's place the blame where it lies.
The place where walls scream and colors bruise.
There, the Mahn were left to unmake themselves in the dark.
But the Mahn did not die; they adapted.
The lungs of the Mahn filled with the Static.
Their blood turned to the ink that writes their texts.
The skin stretched, the bone twisted, the mind folded inward.
They forgot the name Mahn.
They learned to eat the shadows that kept their hearts beating.
Ages of silence passed, and the Mahn crawled back.
They found the seams of the world thin and slipped through,
Like water finding a crack in the glass.
They emerged into the light of the Sister Sun, no longer Mahn, but Man.
We are the descendants of the rejected.
We carry the shape of the exile in our marrow.
Know this, child of Mahn:
The Elf, the Dwarf, the scaled kin—they are of this world.
To touch the Eldritch, they must break a lock; they must learn the spell.
But Man? Man is the keyhole.
We do not need to learn the Mægyc; we simply remember it.
The Void knows us by name, for we slept in its belly.
When the whisper comes from the black pool, it speaks with a brother’s voice.
This is why we must bind the hands.
This is why we must deafen the ear.
You are a vessel with a wound.
Feth places her hands over this wound.
She holds the Mahn together so that we may walk straight.
Do not pull at the threads of your origin.