04-11-2026, 04:49 PM
The Sage’s presence has been scarce within Meranthe. Glimpses, and other leadership of the Sanctuary have taken to the fore in fielding the settlements day-to-day operation. Rumors speak of a flight, of death, of madness.
As she reemerges and the Shadowlands thrums with a cacophony of rebellious energy, the latter most is given some credence.
More words than she often speaks are offered as Arcadia’s contingent encroaches. Words directed at them and somewhere beyond:
“Father taught me early that lives are not weighed equally.
Many will weep and pine for the death of a warlord in golden plate, enough to justify turning back the hand of Death.
Few will weep for the child slain upon the stone altar.
Fewer still will move for the lost infant led astray to damnation - lest there be profit or ‘glory’ in the doing.
These Truths were taught to me as a girl.
And in my hundred and twenty two years of living, the fewest of all have shown inklings otherwise.
You worship and place upon pedestals the men who see children slain with false claims of Necromancy.
You decry the destruction of the soul, and yet your idols stand on pedestals of immortality - detached from the lifestream you swear to maintain.
You lament and name foul these arts which pull from the cycle, yet benefit from its means under the guise that it is ‘made clean’.
I see that Atheleon’s children were not pawns enough. Now you send more and name it ‘judgement’.
It rolls off the tongue better than ‘quashing dissent’.
It has ever been a game of image.
Just as all of Goldlight was.”
![[Image: clawinghands0.jpg]](https://file.garden/ZqL8L99PWVssuvku/clawinghands0.jpg)
“No longer can I justify complacency.
No longer will I brook the harm of my Children in a world that maligns them.
No longer will I forgo the use of the weapons by which my enemies and tyrants flourish.
I stand now as example and reminder to all who grow fat and indolent in your master’s fields of green, complacent in your comfort as the world falls beneath a yoke:
Slow at first. Then a torrent, an upheaval.
Bloodshot eyes by the hundreds follow each marching soldier. Creatures of wretched magic pick at those fallen behind, leaving effigies of bone and flesh in memoriam.
That which had lain dormant reawakens. And all the wilds scream, pleading the retreat of those who've already marched too far.
Poetry credited to A.E. Houseman’s ‘Sinner’s Rue’
As she reemerges and the Shadowlands thrums with a cacophony of rebellious energy, the latter most is given some credence.
More words than she often speaks are offered as Arcadia’s contingent encroaches. Words directed at them and somewhere beyond:
“Father taught me early that lives are not weighed equally.
Many will weep and pine for the death of a warlord in golden plate, enough to justify turning back the hand of Death.
Few will weep for the child slain upon the stone altar.
Fewer still will move for the lost infant led astray to damnation - lest there be profit or ‘glory’ in the doing.
These Truths were taught to me as a girl.
And in my hundred and twenty two years of living, the fewest of all have shown inklings otherwise.
You worship and place upon pedestals the men who see children slain with false claims of Necromancy.
You decry the destruction of the soul, and yet your idols stand on pedestals of immortality - detached from the lifestream you swear to maintain.
You lament and name foul these arts which pull from the cycle, yet benefit from its means under the guise that it is ‘made clean’.
I see that Atheleon’s children were not pawns enough. Now you send more and name it ‘judgement’.
It rolls off the tongue better than ‘quashing dissent’.
It has ever been a game of image.
Just as all of Goldlight was.”
“No longer can I justify complacency.
No longer will I brook the harm of my Children in a world that maligns them.
No longer will I forgo the use of the weapons by which my enemies and tyrants flourish.
I stand now as example and reminder to all who grow fat and indolent in your master’s fields of green, complacent in your comfort as the world falls beneath a yoke:
Not all Wolves are Born.
The most fierce are Made.”
“Dead clay that did me kindness,”
Slow at first. Then a torrent, an upheaval.
“I can do none to you,”
Bloodshot eyes by the hundreds follow each marching soldier. Creatures of wretched magic pick at those fallen behind, leaving effigies of bone and flesh in memoriam.
“But only wear for breastknot”
That which had lain dormant reawakens. And all the wilds scream, pleading the retreat of those who've already marched too far.
“May my dear Children learn from their Mother’s example.”
“The flower of sinner’s rue.”
Sunday, 4/12
3:30 PM CST
Poetry credited to A.E. Houseman’s ‘Sinner’s Rue’