People of Once-Iviofa, Children of the First Mother, Orc and Troll tribes of Found Homes, Living Defiance of Empires and Ages Many, Crafters of Prayer and Passion-imbued Creation.

Moghedu my beloved,

The Curator thinks he can put us behind glass. He thinks Moghedu is a relic to be dusted, a story to be told by only his tongue, a faith to be stuffed into museums like a dead scarab pinned to a board.

Let him try.

We are the ones who worshipped in the dark when the world called it heresy. We are the ones who carved temples into the roots of mountains when they burned our altars. We are the ones who remembered the Seven when they renamed our gods and forgot our long memory.

Now, this wizard comes to preserve us like a specimen? No. We are not artifacts. We are alive.

And the knowing of Spirits- of Gods -are with us still. Our faith only expanded upon and strengthened in hardship, redoubled in pantheon as the truths of our histories came to light and some of the Keeper Gods joined the expanse of fervent faith beneath the mountain.

Hear how the wizard's hubris echoes with a wrongness in his power? One who would surely fall for promises of wealth where we know lies only madness and ruin.

See how the shadows of shades flow about his feet? Even a puddle can drown one who breathes it deeply.

See how our ancestors' creation, The Ruby Sphinx, evades him even now? What hope has he against the blood and will of Moghedu? Even our making defies the might he claims.

We are a people remembered, and no enchantment holds greater than our ever enduring faith, the hardship and crafting that creases our earth-blessed hands.

The wizard's stagnation cannot hold our will, no matter how he envies our beauty. He cannot deny us the promised hope of rest when we have done as we must.

From Life, Death. From Death, Life.
Entesh, Untesh.


Varshatesh Kuzirnai
Child of Earth
Kin of Nivios
Listener of Deep, Memory, Rhythm
Speaker of the Wild Court

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 5th of Lexadian, in the year 10 AC.