[These words are written with care, but it can't disguise that they are poorly done. Despite being readable, at least, several are mispelled, some of them are mispelled, crossed out and mispelled again, and general conventions of grammar are treated with an apathy approaching disdain.]
What odd times! What strange times! Twice in a year I take up these WRETCHED inkfeathers!

You ones of the Aerie! You vital, Hopeful-hearted children of our true Mother! I use perfectly good feathers and the remains of a perfectly good tree to bring praise to you! Whatever is and might be between our people I call for you to be proud, for your Mother surely is! You bold ones, who stay in the wreckage of your village and hold true, you walk with Rhuvolk, you see the cost of your deeds, of your life, of your death, and you stand strong! You walk with Griash, you know fear, you know sorrow, and you find your purpose still! You walk with Vo'acha, however poor the results of your strike, you made it, still, bold and true in the darkness of your hour! You walked with Takaros, and you learned the more painful of His lessons, but you walked, for a time, beneath His breath of flame, and that is good and right. You sought paths with Srahda, and you followed them to their end, and that is right, too.

You ones who leave, who strive to live in other ways, on other land, I say you deserve your praise, too. When the wolf hunts the doe, the doe is not a coward to flee, no more than the wolf is a monster to hunt it. Strive! Strive to live! To seek to live forever is foolishness, meaningless, an afront to She Who Loved You First, but to seek to live so long as one may? That is a thing to be proud of, says this one. Live, however you might, hold to your Hopeful heart and fill it with the joys and sorrows of a life lived true, for that is what brings meaning to an end.

For those who have met that end, know that their Mother mourns for them, and rejoices for the lives they held to the last. There is sorrow in death, says this one. It is a part of the gift She gave so very long ago. All things must die, this is a beautiful thing, the truth of the world that brings meaning to beginings and ends, and it is a terrible, sad thing. Perhaps you and yours do not wish to hear any of these things from one of my kin, and perhaps that is fair enough, but I will sing praise of you to our Mother.

Whatever comes in later days, know that you are loved, have been loved since long before you were ever born, know that your struggles, victories, losses, joys and sorrows are seen by a Mother who celebrates and mourns with you. Listen for Her in the world around you, hear Her song and know that She sings it for you, just as you sing it for Her. Hope is your birthright. Her love is your birthright. Hold to your love, hold to your Hope, whatever conflicts might arise between our people, these things we could not, would not banish from you.

May the tears of your kin and the blood of your fallen nourish land and memory. May you live strong until your ends, bold ones of the Aerie.

so speaks Flinn of the Praadi, Kin of K'y'lee'nn

Penned by my hand on Quensday, the 8th of Ivolnos, in the year 16 AC.

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