| June 2006 | << May 2006 | July 2006 >> |
| Changed by Contagion |
| Garden of the Prophet > Libraria Chroniclis |
It was upon the eve of the Procession of the Anointed Etesephen that word arrived from my Lord in the far Afrik realm. These tidings came many leagues from the mountain Cathedral - whence the Prophet's Fire had borne it - carried by dutiful Brother Murmus. Peasants yet toiled in the fields and upon the garden-decks, to take in the last of my Lord's harvest before the holy procession day. The youngest followed the laden Brother from the forest edge to the great-portal of Witan's walls, as sheth after the herder.
Brother Murmus is yet a face of old Witan, for all he is given to the Hateless Order and the Prophet's seed. He is of a rude stock gathered from all the realms by my Lord's grandsire, and once a Voidman exhorting the Prophet's will within echoing, root-choked Dasu. This was long years past in Witan's greatness, when Dasu's heart-vault beat with the Prophet's Fire, a Voidmaster sat beside the Lord and his Magister, and the fortress war-shrine spilled forth the prayer of faithful souls. So much are the tales told by the Lay-brother of the Prophet's shrine, and by my Lady's mother to her maids - but Brother Murmus lived those years just as he lives now.
With small-cannon, sword and faith, the holy Brother walked a hundred leagues from Fraberg through barren, poison char and trackless forest. Pelts of four wolven from the near-forest he brought as a gift for Magister Albret, slain by his own hand - and the meat good for a traveler away from his Brethren, or so was his word. Other gifts he had besides: tales of faithful crusade in the Afrik realm, tidings of Fraberg, and the speech of my Lord carried in his heart.
The eldest Lord of the Afrik realm had in truth fallen far from the Prophet's teachings, and such was the call to crusade from the High Ordained of the Faith these three years past. Many took the Prophet's service; Brotherhoods of the Garden and close-guard of many a Lord had stood in siege about the fortress-mountain Kilemjaro for a year and a day before Brother Murmus returned to Fraberg upon the war-barque Tibene.
The Brother told the noble-blooded of Witan of the noise of great-cannon and steaming jungle set to char by the Prophet's Fire; rivers cast to vapor in a single breath, and forgen black with heat. The holy Brother told further of pennons of the Mercyless Order carried through breached vent-works to reclaim the Void-fortress Obeja from foul heresy. That great holy of the Faith towers above jungle and river upon a cradle of forgen and crete, as it has since years of the First Order; Brother Murmus spoke of Obeja as a great-shrine of the Faith, just as those shown in the books of my Lady's vaults and embroideries sealed within the war-shrine.
It gave much comfort to my Lady and the Magister to hear of the success of the faithful and the words of my Lord from afar. My Lady soon gave promise that would see even the last dust of Witan's dry coffer-vaults bestowed upon the Order, and a heavy chantry-tithe upon the peasants. So it was to be, the least of the faithful to be grateful for a greater burden, and Witan to lessen in the name of the Order and holy Fraberg.
Darker tales had Brother Murmus for Lay-brother Wagen and the peasants who burnish the vault-works of the Prophet's shrine, retold by my Lady's guard of the upper vaults many days later. Of foulness from Unhallowed vaults, pennons of the Faith cast asunder, and dark-men of the Afrik realm driven mad by voices from the Void. The peasants of the lowest levels whisper of the Changed, and of war-blooded guard sent screaming by what hides within the vault-ways and shafts of despoiled Obeja. I shudder yet to set these words in ink - it is the Prophet's will for Witan in harvest and holy days to be far from all that is foul and heretical, praise be to His name.
Whilst darkness was told to few by night, Brother Murmus brought tidings of Fraberg to Witan for the tales of day and trencher. Of these, I recall clear and well his voice upon telling my Lady of Preacher Tuth. He who brought holy armor before the peasants of Witan upon a winter festival had passed into the Prophet's arms; at the bidding of my Lady, the Brother gave a blessing upon the gathered, and spoke well of the Preacher's deeds in long service to the Prophet.
In the way of memory, the words of Preacher Tuth at my Lady's table returned to me with the dark tales of Brother Murmus. A foolish maid, raised from low by one who should have known better the place of peasant blood, asked if the aged Preacher journeyed in fear of Unhallowed places and Changed who hid to spite the Faith. In the voice of the Prophet from a body so frail, with great, vaporous breath in the snow-chilled vault, Preacher Tuth gave harsh Peniten to the maid; the holy Rur realm is cleansed of such foulness these past centuries. The Faithful of the Orders guard against both Contagion from the Void and the faithless whispers in the hearts of men and women - who amongst the faithful would speak such peasant's tales? The maid ran from the high vaults of my Lady, down shaft and vault-way to the least of the faithful and the lowest decks of rags whence she came.
Preacher Tuth had spoken then in low earnest to my Lady, his words of the Changed and the fantasies of peasants; such was lost to me until wakened by the black tales of Brother Murmus, hidden from my Lady and come to me through lame Rudel of my Lady's close-guard.
Said the Hateless Preacher: the least of the faithful must by guided well in the Prophet's teachings, for their hearts are given to wander from the true path of the Faith. In the heart of Witan he trusted, for my Lord and his guard showed well their duty in the Prophet's service - but each faithful heart hides whispers that yet call to the Void. The madnesses and false superstition of peasants cannot blind the faithful of noble blood, nor those who bear the Prophet's seed: there are yet Changed in the Prophet's Garden. They who were once of the Faith and to whom the Void hath spoken madness; who call further than a voice may carry; who see further than the eye may see; who know your memory as their own; whose hearts burn to spread Contagion as the cancen within the old; who are cursed and Unhallowed in the Prophet's eyes. The Orders call Purgen upon the Six Revulsions, enacted by the hands of the Prophet, lest these fallen bring a doom upon all the faithful.
That winter, I heeded the maid's Peniten and not the quiet exhortation of the Changed. The faith of Witan is strong as the forgen of fortress walls, for all my Lord and his guard are at crusade, and in this the Rur realm is well in the Prophet's eyes. May our prayer in the Prophet's name keep it so for centuries yet.
[ Posted by Reason on June 30, 2006 | Permanent Link ]
| Pilgrimage to Holy Fraberg |
| Garden of the Prophet > Libraria Chroniclis |
Just once, when not yet of years for the eyes of men, I traveled with my mother to the great Cathedral of Fraberg upon the mountains. Few journey so far from these forgen decks now, save but to seek a place in Fraberg or the valleys below. It is a hard toil across the empty Rur realm, even in the gentle season of vines and flowers over the vault-works of Witan - and my Lady has become more demanding of her maids as the years crease her skin.
This past Censen, the peasants of the lower fortress speak of naught but rumor; of brigands who live by cannon upon the char and poison circle-lakes where nothing grows, or hide in forests set with Unhallowed vaults. Lay-brother Wagen is ever stern with such fools' words, but to no avail. His hair is yet black, but he has tended the Prophet's shrine beneath the broad-deck since my mother's birth; blessed is he who has heard all that might be spoken by the least of the faithful. Whom would brigands prey upon now, save for peasant fantasies?
The year of my journey was a pilgrimage in truth, given the Prophet's speed by a glad procession of pennons and tidings to the great-portal of Witan. Men of the close-guard bore the bones of my Lord's grandsire to Fraberg within a forgen casket most ancient. The Ordained of the Hateless Order so honored his service that a place within the Cathedral sepulcher-spire was given to his relics. Scarce less was he beloved by the least peasant of the Rur realm, and with his bones went the heart of Witan. May the Prophet watch over the soul of my Lord's grandsire yet, and that of my Lord and his guard in the far, steaming Afrik realm. I pray often for the third year of the crusade in service to the Order.
Those years ago, the close-guard were faithless men; brigands, harlots and ribalds of small-cannon tamed by my Lord's grandsire from each of the Prophet's realms. Vile of speech, but strong of hand and loyal to Witan's forgen decks - all are gone now to the Afrik realm or their souls to the Prophet's judgement.
A harsh travel it was through all Rue, and long the last climb into mountains, for all the few faithful in valleys nigh unto Fraberg aided our way. Char-mixed rain fell for days on end, yet the high walls of deep-scarred forgen rose above us at long last. Fraberg is a bitter, ugly sight yet for those of Witan: then, cages of judged heretics hung at each great cannon-vault upon the walls. Corven flocked about to redden their beaks, and made nests upon bones picked clean of heresy. Yet further, higher above forgen vault-works, the Cathedral set mighty decks and spires upon the greatest mountain as though a cloak. Far across the near realms can the Ordained see from their high spire vaults, but a stench was about the vale of high peaks, and middens lay cast beyond the walls. A plague of flux was upon Fraberg in that year; peasants sickened beneath the vault-works raised by the faithful of old.
The close-guard took away the casket that was their task, and passed within the great-portals of Fraberg. Brothers strong and true strode down from the Cathedral to speak of faith and a resting place within the sepulcher-spire - those who had not taken up sword, cannon and the Prophet's banner to crusade in the charred heart of the Afrik realm. Thence to the lowest decks of whores, rags and tomb-vaults of the least peasants did the close-guard descend, true to their lewd countenance. The Prophet would judge them for their faithlessness, as He judges us all, for the flux took their bowels - and unto death for the elder of their number.
I did not enter the great-portals; my mother led me past stinking middens and beneath judged heretics, about the outer walls and a climb of steep thin-paths to the Chapel Technis. Mighty is the Chapel at Fraberg; a great forgen pillar standing before the vault-works of the Cathedral. Tall seal-gates face away from fluxed Fraberg - which then cast forth a great noise and shower of steam at the nearest mountains.
I was afeared, for all our pilgrimage was in truth to my mother's grandsire, Brother Erek, who had pledged his heart and soul to the Prophet for half a century. Forgen burned red, flowed and crashed within the Chapel; Brothers gave loud chantry to their craft within the factora. When first I saw him, Brother Erek gave guide to crashing factora-knives of half a rod in height upon steaming forgen, just as I cut sheth-cheese for my Lord's trencher. Such life the Prophet gives His faithful, who bear His seed and the fist of the Order! My mother's grandsire was broad yet, face full and hair fair as the guard who tryst with maids in the darkest shafts and vault-ways of Witan. With great surprise and gladly he blessed us, for all this was a place for the holy of the Order alone. His Brothers bade us well when they learned of our blood, and shared their char-stained bread amidst the noise and strange vapors.
The Order is the family to a holy Brother - this I understand now, if not then. My mother sought prayer and a blessing upon my grandsire's soul, and that Brother Erek gave in the quiet and echoing great-vaults of the Cathedral, for all he was troubled in some way by such. A tear in her heart was healed in this way, by her demeanor as I remember it, but I know not what.
Once only did I embrace my great-grandsire, for the black sickness took my mother into to the Prophet's arms three winters thereafter, and my Lady would naught give a maid leave to journey to Fraberg in these years. May her soul be well guided by the Prophet.
[ Posted by Reason on June 22, 2006 | Permanent Link ]
| Garden of the Hallowed |
| Garden of the Prophet > Primaria Technis |
Pray, you Technists! Guard the Garden of the Hallowed with your perfect chantries. Carve forgen with the oldest litanies and set walls of prayer strong and thick about these gifts of the Prophet's wisdom. A beating heart beats in vain without a soul, and the Hallowed are once and always the soul of the Chapel Technis.
Before the the years of the First Order, upon the charred realms of war and heresy, those few of the Faith amongst the artisans of old knelt before the war-processions of the Prophet. With great despair these faithful beseeched the Prophet to draw the line of His long-cannon across the realms, to divide Hallowed from Unhallowed. Lo! And the Prophet placed a great seal about the souls of men, that those who accept His seed will know Hallowed from Unhallowed and thus be shielded from Contagion.
In the years of the First Order, faithful artisans crafted alchema and factora amidst the char and sand of the Desert of Old Holies. The First Technists raised up the great Chapel Technis of the Cathedral City, guided by the wisdom of the Prophet. Within beat two heart-vaults of Prophet's Fire, and between these holies the Garden of the Hallowed. Upon forgen cast by the Anointed Hebsebar for soil and watered by litanies of the faithful, the First Garden grew Hallowed blue-forgen to be charged mightily with quintessen of the heart-vaults.
Thusly was the rightful path of the Technist shown by those who knelt before the Prophet. So did the first of the faithful tame the fifth essence to exhort armor, war-barque and mighty factora, praise be to the Prophet's guidance. Guard the Hallowed of the Chapel Technis with your prayers, you faithful!
[ Posted by Reason on June 19, 2006 | Permanent Link ]
| Cannon of the Fifth Essence |
| Garden of the Prophet > Primaria Technis |
Only the greatest amongst the faithful of the Chapel Technis are given by the Prophet to craft holy long-cannon of the fifth essence. Only the most holy of Technists is so blessed by the quintessen of heart-vault and rage of the Prophet's Fire. By the tradition of the Anointed Hebsebar of the First Order, this shall be the trial of faith by which one High Technist is known from the many dutiful who bear the Prophet's seed.
Let not the neonate draw and wind coils of greater forgen from the Garden; let not the neonate bespeak the cannon-prayer upon this work; let not the neonate charge cannon-rails with quintessence of the heart-vault; let not the neonate weave pennons of the litanies. Such are the duties of the Technist of long years and greatest faith in the eyes of the Prophet.
In his life of years, the Anointed Hebsebar worked the Prophet's will to craft five quintessen-cannon of armor and the great-cannon Selen. After these centuries of the Prophet's service, Selen of the fifth essence is yet a steadfast protector of the faithful within the mighty vault-works of the Void-fortress Gereth. Let the constant Technist aspire to such perfection in the name of the Prophet, for the Chapel Technis must be the unblemished shield of the holy Order.
[ Posted by Reason on June 18, 2006 | Permanent Link ]
| Peniten of the Alchema Center-vault |
| Garden of the Prophet > Primaria Technis |
The alchema is as a vault-column for the factora of the devoted Technist. The Faithful of the Chapel Technis bow toward the Prophet's wisdom within the center-vault, for such is ordained. The litanies of the factora draw greatly upon these riches, and we are blessed by the Prophet for our devotion to His word.
Hold forth and treasure the litanies of the Chapel Technis! It is the Prophet's will that the faithful Technist know each essence of the realm that He shall call upon to serve in His name. In their rightful combination and by most virtuous prayer shall the faithful of the alchema support the vault-works of the factora.
Yet too, the pennoned and rightfully inscribed center-vault of the alchema shall watch over the souls of the Chapel. Let there be but one amongst the faithful who is tempted towards the heresies of the Fallen Technist - seal-gates and vats of of the alchema will pour forth great poisons and a flood of strong-water. All shall choke and burn until Peniten is performed by the dutiful of the Chapel, and those who turned toward Contagion are clensed.
Thus shall the alchema center-vault be the most holy hand of the Prophet upon those who bear His seed; let the faithful Technist and neonate of the alchema be most honored in their charge.
[ Posted by Reason on June 17, 2006 | Permanent Link ]
| My Lady's Tapestry of the Fall of the Unhallowed |
| Garden of the Prophet > Libraria Chroniclis |
A reckoning there would be between my Lord and Aelth, youngest of his sons, but that would not come until two full years past the peasant's festival of vaults within spired Turyth. The seed was planted well in Aelth's heart by Brother Hura, and by my Lady Mese, was it her intent or otherwise.
The sand-winds died to their very least with the first days of Char, and my Lady's thoughts turned to journeying once more. Within tread and wheel of stern forgen, eased little by bright pennons of fine craft, my Lady knelt in prayer for the souls of the red realms whilst we crossed sands and grasses. The highest spire of Turyth's forgen walls soon enough faded from view, and few peasants of the half-desert sought to petition or follow my Lady's modest procession. Broad Rephe of the guard dealt roughly with such within the Outer Spires of Turyth, as was his wont, and all beggars and ribalds soon knew my Lady's complexion as his. I was gladdened we had not to suffer the stench of peasant souls.
Aelth did not share our noisesome travel of clanking tread upon forgen wheel, and was joyful for it. He and his favored of the close-guard had swathed themselves in gere-fat and leather many days past in Awe, the better to travel in the manner of peasants. Afar they went to the great Cathedral and vaults of the Unresting Order upon Great Olimpan, whilst sand yet blew high, harsh and about. That pilgrimage is worthy of record, and such I have vowed to accomplish before the Prophet calls upon my soul.
All knew what lay in the heart of my Lord's youngest son, for he was given not to hidden intent, even from his earliest years. Upon his tongue was naught but the Orders of the Prophet and questions of the Faith across the days of Awe spent beneath Turyth's high spires. Those close-guard most loyal to my Lady spoke better of my Lord's youngest son than ever I had heard - even scarred Rephe, who was most faithful for all his peasant's countenance. Truly, to accept the Prophet's calling is to stand higher upon the flanks of Great Olimpan in the sight of men, no matter what has passed before. Aelth's soul was in my prayers in those days also, for all I saw the mighty sand-storm to come.
Many days from Turyth, the Great-bridge of the Disciples stood just as before; sand-drifts against forgen vault-works and a league of bridge-deck muffled from tread and wheel by spreading hard-grass. The deleth seeds thrown down by my Lord so long ago had grown fine and thin across the sword of Arteheban - enough to give pause to the faithful for reflection upon the passage of years. Not since the time of the High Ordained Rusul have men journeyed in great number to the mighty chasms. The realm of hills and half-desert beyond has fallen into desolation, its tall fortresses empty save for one: the destination of my Lady Mese, the Cloister of the Prophet's Footfall.
I have long commended the good women of the Cloister in word and deed. In their faith, they burnish and sweep clean the road-shrine of the secondmost step of the Prophet upon the red realms. For all their peasant blood, these cloistered stand far from the would-be brigand of the half-desert and the stench of low fortress decks. In this, I follow the affections of my Lady, for she had endowed an ample chantry upon the Cloister: prayer for the strength of our souls, and tapestry for the high vaults within my Lord's strong fortress.
The sourge-cough that so wracked Preacher Gare of Turyth had brought misery to the Cloister spire in the year that passed before. The eldermost maid passed to the care of the Prophet, blessings be upon her soul, and thus it fell to my Lady to bestow approval upon a new sequesten of the chantry.
For all that the greater part of the Cloister fortress stands empty and unkept, my Lady's close-guard were given to wait beyond the deleth groves and wall of piled crete from ancient, unhallowed years. My Lady set forth in modest ornament of coarse cloth, guided through canted forgen vault-works of old by the least of cloistered maids. At the very center of the fortress, the great portal of the Cloister-vault stood closed yet, its workings choked by sands then as now. Thin-wood stairs to the lowest arch window sufficed for the cloistered, and for my Lady also - past were the years in which such was an insult to my Lord's blood.
My Lady talked long with the elder maids within their least-vaults high and low. All the while, I dwelled upon the great tapestry then unfinished - years from a journey to my Lord's fortress in triumphant procession. Even then it was fit to stir the souls of the faithful. The cloistered maids turned their craft to declaim the fall of the Unhallowed of the red realms, whence the Demos city-realm was cast down from the Void - fell burning with Fire untamed by the Prophet. Into a thousand parts the Demos realm broke, each a hammer upon the red realms to throw up sands fit to cloud the skies for a century, poison the half-deserts and pound out the Great Desolation.
The faithful of the cloister emboidered the faces of the Unhallowed, crying out for the Prophet before His time. In this did they speak most truly of the faithful who would come after. It was not mine to speak of it, but the tapestry alone would merit the chantry of a Lord of the Prophet's realm - rare is the work that speaks as much of the Faith as the most earnest Preacher upon Great Olimpan.
[ Posted by Reason on June 16, 2006 | Permanent Link ]
| Feast of the First Day of Censen |
| Garden of the Prophet > Calend of the Faithful |
Upon this first day of Censen, bring forth your second-tithe and the meat of fine sheth for the Feast of Counting, with praise to the Prophet and His holy Orders for their defense of the Faithful.
Upon each fiftieth Censen, Anointed of the Faith journey the realms of the Garden to take count of the Faithful, that holy Brethren may do the Prophet's will. Dutiful Lords of realm, magisters of fortress and elders of village bow one and all, rightfully before the Anointed. The year-counts of realm, fortress and village are rendered unto to the Cathedrals, there to swell most fruitfully the holy records of the Faith. Give thanks to the Prophet this feast-day that His seed lives within the protectors of the Faith, who count each of the faithful as though their own child.
The thirdmost Great Censen of the years of High Ordained Dalseban was fifteen years in journey and illumination by holy Brethren of the Cathedral City. Its year-counts were cast in forgen sheets a rod in height, bound in mighty chains and set within the spired Great-vault of Seven Portals that the Faithful will ever know their strength. For the Anointed numbered the Faithful of the Garden to be ten million, praise be to the Prophet!
This first day of Censen, kneel in duty before Lord, magister and elder for the year-count. Feast well, you Faithful, and pray with zeal for the protection of your souls.
[ Posted by Reason on June 12, 2006 | Permanent Link ]
| Heed Not the Whispers of the Heart |
| Garden of the Prophet > Source of All Seeds |
A part within all of the Faith cries out to Contagion - even within those most holy: my Brothers of the Hateless Order, who bear the Prophet's seed and live the life of years. Lo! For are we not descended from the Unhallowed who fell for their faithless ways? Do we not yet pay penance for their heresy? It is the Test of the Prophet that we heed not the whispers of the heart of our forefathers, for such would lead us into Contagion and the very destruction of our souls.
The Prophet has lit our way by the holy light of His Fire, but even the least of the faithful, even the peasant of the lowest levels, must stand firm and walk upon his own two legs. Would you be as one who fell beside the way, with char in place of soul? Or you, would you be as the hollow-hearted Unhallowed, who tore down all they cherished in flame and horror? Would you fall into Contagion, and be destroyed by the hand of the Prophet? No!
The beasts of field and garden-deck follow the heart, for they have not the soul nor understanding of the Prophet's words. You are not beasts with the appearance of men, as the savages beneath the far Lesser Suns! No, lest you stray from the path of the faithful. It is the heart that whispers a want to see farther than your father's eye; to call to loved ones gone to prayer, farther than your mother's voice; to recall more than your own memories; to stray into the forests and char where only Unhallowed towers stand. Harken not to your heart!
Like offal upon the water, Contagion is within the Void betwixt realms of our great Garden. Like spoil thrown beneath the lowest forgen deck, Contagion is beneath the works of the Unhallowed yet. The whispers of your heart are the stench of rot, a warning! There are thorns in the Garden that would pierce and poison your very soul, but the words of the Prophet guide and protect the faithful!
Abide by the Faith and follow most dutifully the discipline of we Hateless Brethren! Look you to the Lord of the Rur realm and Magister Albret of Witan in matters of the flesh - but all flesh passes; this I have seen, and this you know. You must look to the Preacher, to my Brothers, to the Ordained of the Cathedral of Fraberg for the protection of your soul.
[ Posted by Reason on June 11, 2006 | Permanent Link ]
| Pilgrimage to the Haired Star of the High Ordained Ferele |
| Garden of the Prophet > Libraria Chroniclis |
Upon the winter that the soul of the High Ordained Ferele was consigned to the Prophet, the greatest haired star of two centuries lit the cold night above the Cathedral City of the Faith. Soon thereafter, Anointed Hase of Bethehen was acclaimed to become High Ordained; thus the holy Procession of the Prophet's Vow across sands and broken crete to the First Spire took place in a winter of omens.
The ribald Essebe wrote that peasants of the low levels and villages around the Desert of Old Holies gave to great unrest and fear that winter; sand-serpents slid through portals to test the faithful, and the Ten Wells of the forgen-vaulted Broken Plaza ran low beneath the light of the haired star. Upon the coldest night of winter, when even sheth-herders drew their flocks to shelter, the Prophet's realm shook twice underfoot; great crevices opened in the crete of the Field of Gerbea, to reveal ancient and sealed vault-ways of the Unhallowed.
While the Anointed Hase knelt alone within holy vault-works of the high First Spire, his procession of close-guard and Brethren of the Order, arrayed in pennoned armor, lay encamped far below. By light of torch and fire, those faithful gave praise to the Prophet upon the commencement of the High Ordained. Long is such a night; as the first light of morning met the haired star far across the Void, a vision of the Prophet came upon High Ordained Hase, who cried out in a fervor. Through shaft and vault-way ran the High Ordained, once Anointed, to call pilgrimage to the Brothers within holy armor. Pilgrimage across darkest Void to the haired star of the High Ordained Ferele!
Whilst frost yet gathered upon crete and forgen, and peasants beset Preachers in their fear of the Prophet's judgement upon the realms, the war-cog Amerma stood provisioned - burnished by the High Technist Tersage himself, pennoned and blessed by the Faithful. Voidmen and Brothers of the Order made procession within, led as pilgrims of the Faith by the good Voidmaster Embrelen - he who had stood beneath each of the Lesser Suns and brought succor across the Void to the hundred Technists who crafted yet the Great-shrine of Statues - and the most devout of all Ordained, Urras of Ruska. A might of mountains amongst the Faithful, the Ordained Urras was as a shaggy ursen of the forests, he who journeyed a thousand leagues of char and wild to take the Prophet's seed and fist of the Order within his chest.
Exhorted by faithful Voidmen, Amerma rose to the Void upon the Prophet's Fire of heart-vault and vent-works. Within the Chapel Oculis, upon the edge of the Void, Voidmaster Embrelen and Ordained Urras swore the completion of their pilgrimage upon the very Holies of the Cathedral, and so set their vow upon the records of Order and Voidmen. This great vow yet stands within the Station of Humble Duty of the Void-fortress Gerest, there to inspire the Faithful in their defense of the Garden.
Far from the realms voyaged the Faithful of Amerma, beyond the Void lit true by the treasured litanies of the Prophet. When litany spoke false, a despair rose amongst the Voidmen and speech of return was whispered, for Contagion swims the Void to prey upon the very souls of men. Yet the faithful Oculist Persive, he who grew to a thin height in the shadow of Great Olimpan, stood forward to entreat the Faithful upon a gathering of the garden-vault. The haired star shone brighter yet while the Oculist Persive spoke - let the eyes of the Oculist guide the Faithful, for is it not Ocular shrines that Voidmen trust to settle safe upon each new realm? This most dutiful Oculist was much acclaimed by Voidmaster and Ordained; the pilgrims of the haired star were carried deeper into the Void by the eyes of the Chapel Oculis.
Brethren of the Order prayed greatly upon each new day, and Voidmen redoubled their holy rites of the Void. Contagion was upon them, close beyond thick and burnished forgen; only the beating of Prophet's Fire from the heart-vault and prayer of the Faithful kept dread fate at bay. Gallas-vines died within the garden-vault and four Voidmen gave unto madness while Amerma strove mightily through the trailing hair of the star. Yet unwavering were Voidmaster Embrelen and Ordained Urras, and the Oculist Persive stood sleepless and strong as one Anointed within the Chapel Oculis.
The holy pilgrimage came at last to the blackened star-realm behind shining hair; there was rejoicing and calling forth to the Prophet, even while Voidmen ceased their exhortations. The Prophet's Fire withdrew within Amerma's beating heart-vault and forgen decks no longer pulled as the crete and soil of the Prophet's realms. Great pennons of the Order and Cathedral City were brought forth in honor of High Ordained Ferele, leagues of linked forgen woven as though cloth, the better for the star-realm to carry the Prophet's word through the Void.
Oculists and Voidmen pilgrims spoke their most trusted prayers and turned burnished forgen to direct the light of Prophet's Fire from the heart-vault, but lo! There upon the Void-touched char stood a great foulness - a Contagion-shrine of dread circle-meshes and many-pointing dark spires, such as no true amongst the Faithful should ever see! A great and rightful cry of fear and horror came from the Oculists, and thence Voidmen, but not so from the Ordained Urras. To the seal-gates, beset with the fury of the Prophet's Hands, went the Ordained - so too the Brothers of the Order. With Long Breath and sword of unbending forgen, these instruments of the Prophet's will leapt from the seal-gates to tear apart Contagion and hurl it once more to the Void.
So the Prophet's design was revealed to the Faithful - this was to be a rightful war-pilgrimage of the Order; the haired star bore the name of the High Ordained Ferele, yet Contagion befouled the star-realm. The Prophet taught that where Contagion stood, Contagion will once more stand, lest each smallest grain is cleansed in holy Fire. With the true strength of the Faithful, Voidmaster Embrelen returned heart to his Voidmen and duty to the Oculists; when the rage of Brethren faded, the Prophet's Fire of Amerma's vent-works would char all Contagion from this least realm.
As the Voidmaster spoke, so was it done. With yet Void-frozen bones, twice clothed in black char-dust of the realm, the Ordained Urras and Brothers of the Order carried forgen pennons through the seal-gates. Beneath shining hair, they anchored pennons of Order and the Faith upon the Fire-cleansed realm with great chains and pins. Praise be to the Prophet!
Let all of the Faith recall the War-pilgrimage of the Haired Star of the High Ordained Ferele, for by such is shown the devotion of the Hands of the Prophet to the Garden and the Faithful.
[ Posted by Reason on June 9, 2006 | Permanent Link ]
| Deep Ruska, a Century From the Faith |
| Garden of the Prophet > Source of All Seeds |
It is the Prophet's will we came here, Brother. The Voidmaster's record might have lain a century more within the vent-works of ancient Heness, but for the careless tread of neonates. All who might recall amongst the Voidmen are long gone to the Prophet's arms, for few have the Prophet's seed and the life of years. The Ordained Renne would have known, the Prophet rest his soul, for he rose upon the Prophet's Fire with the Voidmen to every village and fortress of strong forgen in the realm.
Look you there and there - Preacher Etene gathers the peasants from hiding, and the good Voidmaster laughs yet. Poor-clothed and fearful they are; Heness has scared them mightily indeed by charring the rock and earth to black and steam in laying to rest. This, the Preacher will forgive, but it will be better for these least of the faithful should they recall their duties; to have stored tithe and stand in readiness to give service in the Prophet's name. So long lost from the hands of the Prophet, I fear they will be in great need of guidance and instruction for many summers.
There are yet strange towers of the Unhallowed high upon the nearest mountain, but no Lord of Ruska nor close-guard to place seals against the curious - not since the years of the High Ordained Geheseb, when Void-dancers hurled fire from the Void upon the realms. The Prophet alone knows how many souls dwell yet in the forests and amidst the char, but shall we forsake them for our ignorance? Look down below, Brother - this village, these woods, the mountains: all are as much the care of the Order as Alb and Messen in the shadow of the Cathedral. Praise to the Prophet for calling us hence to our duty after so many years!
[ Posted by Reason on June 7, 2006 | Permanent Link ]
| Black Lord Umbere's End |
| Garden of the Prophet > Libraria Chroniclis |
With the first sand-wind storms of the twentieth year of the High Ordained Rusul, Lord Umbere - whom peasants called Umbere the Black for his foul deeds - was cast from the Faith by the Anointed Cerre. That great and holy Hand of the Prophet took armor and close-guard to the fortresses of Great Olimpan, there to plunge sword and the pennons of Anathemen to the hilt in the forgen portal of the High Cathedral.
Faithful Lords of the red realms were come to great fear in their duty, for the close-guard of Umbere the Black cast war-poisons of the Unhallowed upon his enemies. Yet worse, artisans of the Heythe realm had turned craft to two fearsome cannon-works of mighty treads and wheels, of size to match the holy war-cog Espheban that once brought the Prophet to Great Olimpan.
While Lords and their guard trembled, those true to the Faith came forth from Cathedral, war-shrine and fortress to kneel before the armor of the Anointed Cerre. While sand-winds howled from the Great Desolation to burnish forgen and the souls of the faithful, Brethren of the Unresting Order swore to follow the Anointed as their Ordained until the Prophet's will was done.
With war-cog Tasaphe and great-cannon of the Chapel Technis, with the armor of the Anoited Cerre at their head, the Unresting Order brought the blood and fury of war upon the guard of Umbere the Black. Many were the faithful who fell in enactment of Anathemen, many were the armors pierced by cannon, the Holies despoiled. Yet these most virtuous Brethren ever prevailed, scattering their enemies in disarray, charring fortresses of the Heythe realm with the Prophet's Fire of Tasaphe's vent-works.
Soon, magisters of the realm came to plead with pennons lowered before the Anointed Cerre, who judged each by his actions. All loyal to Umbere the Black hung from cages of peasant's forgen upon high fortress spires, there to suffer sand-winds from the half-desert.
Yet Black Lord Umbere and his most loyal close-guard fled their rightful end in the burning war-poisons of forgen-walled Heythe. The Voidmasters of the ancient war-barques Mefeb and Ulsehab of the Lords of the Heythe realm did not heed the duties of the Faith; across the near Void to Foros they fled, to that lesser fortress-realm of the Unhallowed. The Prophet's Fire of Mefeb and Ulsehab burned bright to the Anointed Cerre and Unresting Brothers, and soon the most faithful of their number followed into the Void within Tasaphe.
Umbere the Black had found Unhallowed seal-gates yet closed from the Void, and worked mightily to gain shelter - but the Hand of the Prophet was turned against him. Voidmen of the Ocular shrine within Tasaphe discovered the errant war-barques where they hid within forgen and Void-touched rock. Unresting Brothers took the Long Breath to leap into the Void, falling upon Umbere the Black and his close-guard with sword and fist of armor. So was Anathemen complete, and did Black Lord Umbere and all loyal to his foulness meet their end, the Prophet be praised.
[ Posted by Reason on June 2, 2006 | Permanent Link ]
| Festival of the Eleventh Day of Toil |
| Garden of the Prophet > Calend of the Faithful |
On this Eleventh day of Toil, the Festival of the Prophet's Pilgrimage of the High Ordained, praise to the Prophet in His defense of the Garden.
Upon this eleventh day of Toil did the mighty war-procession of the Prophet smite the heretics of the Lune realm, to send all to death and scatter faithless names and works to the Void. The thin-forests and tall grasses were burned to char, fortresses smashed to smoking, broken crete. So was the threat of heresy and the voice of Contagion driven from the Prophet's realms.
Upon this eleventh day of Toil, the High Ordained Ferele, blessings be upon her soul, gave sign that great statues of the Faith, a league in height, were to be raised upon the desolate Lune realm. Voidmasters of the realms brought three times a hundred Technists, artisans and four thousand of the faithful across the Void to build as the High Ordained spoke, where once heretics consorted and plotted against the Faith. The faithful labored long years into the time of the High Ordained Hase, and thence the High Ordained Dalseban, but so it had been spoken, and so it came to be.
Upon this eleventh day of Toil, the High Ordained of the Prophet's realms makes holy pilgrimage from the Cathedral City across the Void, to pray at the Great-shrine of Statues for the Prophet's guidance in the defense of the Faith. Praise be to the Prophet, for His hands shield the faithful!
Be most fervent and true in your devotions this festival day, for the greatest of the Faith journeys the Void to pray for all in the Garden.
[ Posted by Reason on June 1, 2006 | Permanent Link ]
