Ritualist of the savage commune,

We know your kind. You speak a sacred Jalajan phrase, despite being half a world away from that humid, wretched place.

Vorostra is an unforgiving realm, wild-priest: a patchwork of fortified city-states, nomadic tribes, and isolated enclaves. Forged by a need to survive, we have developed magics, battle styles, and other cultural traditions to triumph over the deadly rigours of our continent. My bloody ancestors, the blackhearted Rakshasa, terrorise the continent in droves, and that is not to mention the myriad species of animals inimical to peaceful life.

There is no rest. There is no mercy. There are no sheltered weak.

You speak of a glorious vision, a duty and power beyond me. Let me speak plainly, for there is no value in subtlety when holy voices exchange words:

Would it shock you to know that there are shamans who sing variations of your song, that they teach permutations of your wisdom?

Would it startle you to hear that they obey wild spirits that protect them in ways only Wrath Most Holy could otherwise?

Would it surprise you to know I have glimpsed behind your oracular veils and witnessed the green glory you so hint at?

In the warm heart of northern Vorostra resides a forest that my berserker forebears could never capture, nor siege, nor taint with the fires of their demonic hatred. It is here at the center of such a place that a sacred pool resides, and it is one of the last remaining undisturbed water sources of the continent. A vision of peace unattainable, truly. It is there that some of the continent's last remaining tribal peoples reside upon their ancestral grounds, worshipping their animal effigies and communing with the soul of the land.

Civilised societies know them collectively by one name: the cults of the Fallow Earth. Each of these cults venerated an effigy handcrafted by the eldest of their ancestors. Each tribe possesses their own battle style, their own sacraments and cultures, and each serves as the living hand of those great spirits.

Of these effigies, these have survived unto the present era:

o The enduring turtle.
o The adaptable penguin.
o The vicious, shrewd vulture.
o The mighty, stoic elephant.
o The clever, opportunistic coyote.
o The damnable spelleater, known by many names.
o The fierce catoblepas.

It was there, upon primal grounds, that I wore the Mask of the Trembling God. I alone stood before the savage hordes of darkness and extinguished their inky souls, tore myriad legs from the filth that crawled from the heart of Blackest Night. I alone kept the touch of shadowy greed from those pure waters, for all the tribal warriors had taxed themselves in protecting their spirits during the Night of Silver Harrowing.

I have looked upon the purpose you promise, o ritualist, and I see potential and honour. The blood of your kin would sanctify my blades, rather than dirty it. I would leave it to rust their edges, that I might carry your soul and will into battle to triumph at my side for all eternity. Such is a high honour of the Yemali!

There is no need to meet with corpses, however.

Survive your tribulation and we shall speak further, as there is likely much to discuss.

Penned by my hand on Falsday, the 9th of Sapiarch, in the year 16 AC.