Against my council Noon has turned inwards and wages war in the
bloodiest arena, the theatre of combat against self.
His despondency is great and he has paid an enormous cost. Strong forces
compel him; he is conscious of the price he has paid and it torments him
day and night. What strange daemon had him in its grip? Why has his life
been an endless alternation of blood and holy water? Embrace, renounce,
embrace, renounce; to me his admission of moral fatigue is enough. I
entertain no doubts, after meeting with him, concerning the nature or
sincerity of his intentions.
He is a man catapulted by his own actions, perhaps even his own nature,
into a wasteland of greyness; now, all of his great victories, all the
formerly glorious memories of blood and the vanquished alike - - these
have turned cold in his gut. In his mouth they taste like ashes.
He is a solitary now and knows it. Treat him with dignity and compassion
if the Divine should favor you with such an opportunity.

Penned by my hand on the 16th of Haernos, in the year 194 MA.