Lanos,
Long lost god of truth,
I offer these words as record,
so shared that none can refute
them for they are true.
Griash, Your claws at my back will keep me honest.
Srahda, You know what is truth, for You see all things
as You soar through time.

. ... ....... ... .

I write in the name of a man. I do not seek to call him wound, yet; I do
not seek to name him traitor, yet; I do not seek to call him Oathbreaker,
yet. He is but a man. His name is Edhain de Verdigris.

This man was born through twisted power. Made in the image of another who
proclaimed himself God-Emperor, in the blue glass tower long since
destroyed; his mother would throw herself off the ledge of that structure
in disgust of what she had done. A monster born, then a monster forged by
the cruelty of a father and a step-father, his was a path that sought
unearned absolution by crueler deeds. The son he mourned most recently,
who took his own life and delivered himself to Crowned Death's hands, that
son he murdered as a means to sever such montrosity that was locked in
his heart. As even he admits, he was never immune to the curse that was
his nature.

A tortured man who escaped the Underhalls, long lingering there after the
greater revelations of Crowned Death befell him, he joined the Heartwood
when I returned from a long pilgrimage to my home. We had struck for me
a fancy. It might have been tender at that time, sweet, but the monster
is ever-present. At first, it was not a violent thing, but a thing of
turbulent emotion. Believing that he took advantage of me, he sought
out the hand of witches to castrate himself in repentence. It should
have been then that pain was the only answer to his problems.
But the monster was quickened. His attention on me at every turn,
presence so close. His wanting to be near. I chafed at this fact.
And when it came to ahead, of his wants, of his desires, that made me
a prop in his world, I threw myself before an oak tree and bid him take
what he wanted. Again, violence. He drew knife, and in that moment, I
witnessed who he truly is: a rapist's spirit held at bay only by the
thinnest farce of morality.

This man so fled to that tower he was made in and sought to face the
truth of what he was. Carving the glyphs of the spheres into his flesh
and pressing the blue glass into the open sores, he tortured himself
again and prayed to be made a creature of Dia'ruian fury instead the
cruelty of man. He was sealed away for a time. And I was able to
sigh with relief.

But he returned.

Freed because he is a fool to spellcraft, he returned feeling himself
chastened. The problem, of course, is that forgiveness is the lie we tell
ourselves to make our unwillingness to change palatable. Even when
he declared that things were different, the cruelty of the man remained.
The desire for closeness, the desire for possession. His wants. His
needs. He remained as rapacious and uncompromising as he did then,
unwilling to hail the wisdom of others. He fled the woods because
of his snarling mouth, because he thought his own honor had finally
been worn down enough. The problem was, his honor was never intact.
He perfected the monstrosity to which he was born to be.

. ... ....... ... .

To his merceniaries and would-be allies, I say this I do not share this
to dissuade you. I know you cannot be dissuaded. Let it be that you
too marked with his montrosity by association.

To the world, I say this. See this man, a man who would do anything to
possess what he wants, especially what he cannot. See this man, and
refuse to let him draw you into his world of violence, possession,
control. Refuse him again, and again, and again.

To Edhain, I say this. You who were born from the vile loins of a
father, I speak the tricks of spiteful Aisha, a Jaziran tempted in the
ways of desert women. My mother. I speak the Iohe Ka Vaada and bind
these words to my soul: I will never say your name again. You are
a burden I will no longer carry.

. ... ....... ... .

Lanos,
Long lost god of truth,
I offer these words as record,
so shared that none can refute
them for they are true.
Griash, Your claws at my back will keep me honest.
Srahda, You know what is truth, for You see all things
as You soar through time.

Penned by my hand on Falsday, the 1st of Ivolnos, in the year 19 AC.