A Nonna’s Love

“Hekté, come here.”

“But Nonna, the tomatoes-”

“Can wait. Come, sit,” Nonna gestured to the stool beside her with a floured hand.

Abandoning the knife and basket of tomaotes, I sat next to Nonna and watched her knead pasta for a few silent minutes. Her skillful hands worked the dough from a shaggy mess into a smooth ball, ready for rolling and cutting. She paused before she grabbed her rolling pin and turned to me again.

“Boy, you’re a lot like pasta right now.”

“I- What?” I asked.

“You are a crumbly pile of potential, waiting for life to knead you and press you into shape. You could be hundreds of different things in the end, but for now you’re just the beginning.”

I fidgeted with a scrap of dough infront of me.

“So, you don’t think I should go to Stragosa?”

Nonna laughed, “No, no! Between you and me, I think you need it. But don’t tell your Matri, she’ll start crying again. Always a sensitive thing, she was…”

I stood up and wandered over to the fireplace where a pot of cold water sat. Nonna began rolling out the pasta while I stoked the fire and placed the pot over it. I moved back to the cutting board and contined to cut tomatoes for dinner. The summer heat forbade stewing pasta sauce, but that never stopped Nonna from eating tomatoes every day anyway. Diced tomatoes and anchovies with pasta was a good dish.

Nonna looked my way again, “I think I can get your Matri to postpone the marriage proposal for a bit. Should give you time to grow up a little,” She chuckled, “Benalus knows, you need it!”

“Eh? Nonna!”

Nonna cackled at my objection and deftly cut and formed the farfalle. I laughed a bit myself and helped her bring the little pastas over to the boiling pot, where we dumped them in.

“Ti voglio bene, Nonna.”

My Life Truly Begins

I could hear them gossiping. Oh Benalus, the gossiping.

Matri and Nonna were chatting up a storm over tea and pastries in the kitchen like they do every Sunday morning. I was trying to slip past unnoticed to go run amok for the day. Obviously I don’t spend enough time with Papà, as Matri heard me trying to creep to the door.

“Teté, come here!”

“Matri, please call me Hekté…” I begged.

“Oh Hekté, give your Matri a break!” Nonna chimed.

“I just came of age! Can’t you let that silly nickname go?”

“I know you’re an adult now,” Matri chided, “Let me hold onto the nickname.”

“Fine,” I conceded, “But do you HAVE to be talking about… y’know…”

“Marriage?” Matri asked.

“Si! Yes! Why?!..” I cried, exasperated.

“Well,” Matri explained, “We may not be a super wealthy family, but we can afford to arrange you to marry into a richer family. You have the brains to work in the ports! Think of where that will get you! Plus, Nonna will kill me if I don’t get you a nice girl.”

Nonna chuckled and sipped her tea.

Matri continued, “The nice Capacian girl in the port is still single, and I was considering sending a proposal soon. There’s also the Bookkeeper’s daughter – you remember her, right? I’ve also been looking at some of the available gentry, but I don’t think I could buy off anyone’s fathers yet…”

Matri kept rambling on about prospective partners to Nonna. I had my hand on the door handle when Nonna caught my eye. She smiled, and then winked. I smiled back, a little uncertain and fled the house before Matri started asking questions I couldn’t – or shouldn’t – answer.

I took a quick pace to Aquila’s rookery, in need of some work to keep my mind busy. The cobblestone sidewalks were full of people bustling to and fro on their morning errands, and the canals were alive with gondolas of goods. I turned toward the capital buildings, where the rookery resided and where the wealthy and the gentry chose to live.

The Mistress waited within the rookery, flowing robes showcasing her insane wealth. A number of well-kept ravens stood tall and haughty around her as she looked through a ledger.

“Buongiorno, Mistress,” I greeted. She looked up, long dark hair spilling over her shoulders.

“Buongiorno Hekté. What brings you here on your day off? Is your family gossiping again?”

“Si. You know I’d rather take the Sunday shifts. It gives me an excuse to leave the house.”

The Mistress laughed, “Hekté! I’ve told you that we don’t send anything out on Sundays! I’m sorry, there’s not anything I can do right now.”

“Well, it’s getting out of hand!” I exclaimed, “I’m not interested in girls or marriage! I just need to get out of that!”

The Mistress glanced at her ledger, then back to me. She smiled shrewdly, “Of course, you could always tell them that. Or maybe not. I remember being your age and wanting to be my own person.”

I shuffled my feet, “If I may ask, what are you getting at?”

“Hekté, I think I have an assignment for you.”

The Mistress picked up an envelope, and passed it to me. It was fresh and smelled of ink still, so I knew it had just been written. She placed her hand on mine, and said:

“That letter needs to get to Stragosa”.

A Brief History

It’s Spring, and Allegra is 5. She chases Luciano around their father’s vineyard, pretending at the serious work of trimming and twining the vines in preparation for the growing season. Fausto, only a year younger, is much too much of a baby to do such important work. When Allegra is made to sit too long in one place, she shreds things – wide brown grass and veiny green grape leaves if she can get them, unattended burlap sacks and bright ragged skirt hems if she can’t. Her life is a peaceful cycle of chores and learning practicalities, and there are always other children around for her to play with.

It’s Summer, and Allegra is 9. Every morning when she wakes up, more of the sour green rocks hanging in clumps from the vines have transformed into precious grapes. Luciano is learning how to tell when a crop is ready by taste and feel. Fausto joins her at their mother’s feet whenever possible, but more and more often lately Nerina is nowhere to be found. Allegra has noticed that the people in the village whisper behind their hands when they think she won’t notice, but it doesn’t concern her. She makes up songs about them as she does her chores, imaging she sings to a bustling tavern instead of a dusty storage barn.

It’s Fall, and Allegra thinks she might be 12. She is fast, and small, and clever. She imagines what her brothers must be like now. She understands Aquila better – where it’s safe to sleep, who it’s safe to talk to, who will take your money and give you protection and who will just take your money. The basements and alleys are full of rats, but no one bothers her as she works. And so she works, and scratches by, and dreams of barrels of wine and hot fires.

It’s Winter, and Allegra is 15, though she couldn’t have told you that herself. She no longer sits by the canals, or banters with the whores in the taverns, or scuffles with the other urchins. She keeps her head down. Sometimes while she works she reaches for something too quickly, not thinking, and the raw flesh where her fingers used to be scrapes unbearably against the bandages.

It’s Spring, and Allegra is 18… or near enough. The kitchens in the palace are already too hot, and each night she curls up on the floor wet with sweat and smelling of acrid soap and cooking food. Even still, it is safe, consistent work. She has no time for anything that isn’t food- chopping, cooking, cleaning, running things from place to place. But the palace, for all its size, keeps as much in as it keeps out. So she watches, and listens. She learns.

It’s Summer, and Allegra is 20 – or as the young Princess puts it – “as ancient as the sea.” She wears fancy dresses and tries to keep the middle Dilacorvo child from doing anything too terribly wild. She knows which guards will take a bribe, and how much, and what their limits are. She knows the vices of those who cling to the royal family like leeches, and she knows the virtues of the beggars that crowd the alleys at night looking for noble charity. She does not dream.

It’s Fall, and Allegra is 32. The harvest is an apprehensive time with the grapes still fighting to make sense of the Stragosan soil and strange weather, but they have not failed her yet. Every market brings a new horror, and she leans on her people. Quietly relies on them. She wonders sometimes- often- if her little princess will succeed, and tries to make sure that there will be something in Gotha worth returning to. But winters are not kind in Stragosa as they are in Hestralia, and she can feel the cold creeping back into her bones…

Homily on Self Improvement and Sin

Homily: Self Improvement and Sin

I want to talk to everyone today about Self Improvement.

From the Testimonium:

“the world that we occupy is a vessel in which, when God be poured, forms Humanity” -Covenants
“Within the Word there was Meaning, and God became that Meaning.
God sought to expand the Meaning of the Word” – Rebelleonem

The world was made for God to grow, and when he put himself into it, he became Mankind- millions of us all at once.

Each of us experiences different challenges and sometimes are challenged by each other. Surviving the winter. Surviving the streets. The dangers of travel. Political disputes. Scarcity. All of these things are physical challenges that are intended to grow our spirits- to grow God’s spirit. In a perfect world, we would debate and make peace to solve our disagreements. Those with much would share freely with those who lack. There would be no temptation to be wicked. Indeed, the testimonium tells us:

“If the world were whole, wickedness would be impossible.” -Covenants

But the world was damaged. The Triumvirate rebelled.

Sin is that damage, and it is the cause of all of the monsters and curses we are plagued with, as well.

“The wound which the world suffered at the hands of the Triumvirate robbed it of some unknowable essential aspect which allows wickedness to be” -Covenants

Instead of debate and compromise, we are tempted to simply solve our problems with force and murder- but this doesn’t resolve our disputes; it just makes more. When we lack, we are tempted to steal rather than humble ourselves by asking for help- but this doesn’t eliminate scarcity; it just hurts someone else. We seek brief carnal pleasure because we crave love and intimacy- but we are hurting our chance for true intimacy when we do that. We seek the solace of alcohol to distract us from our woes- but our woes grow while we drown ourselves, and sometimes we create even more of them in our stupor.

Sin does not make us grow. It makes us less. It diminishes us and makes us weak and wounded in spirit, and that is what the demons wanted when they damaged the world.

But we can grow despite them. We can heal the damage they cause. We can defy those demons and be free of the shackles of sin. We just have to be cautious of our path. We have to work at it more to improve ourselves. We have to understand sin so we can identify and avoid it.

Covenants tells us: “It is mankind’s duty to make the world whole and replace that which was taken.”
It is our duty to grow and make the world a better place.

I’m going to go over a couple of those sins that seem commonly misunderstood.

First is Greed. Greed is the sin of lack. Of scarcity. We fear starving. We fear loss of our shelter, of our success, of our possessions. But when you take something that isn’t yours, you are taking from yourself. You are that other person. We are all God.

But we all know that theft is wrong. There is more to greed. Greed is also not giving to others when you can. It’s keeping those few silver in your pockets that could be helping the people around you.

“What if you need it later?” ask the demons. “Didn’t you earn it? Why can’t they get their own? Couldn’t you wait for someone else to help them? Couldn’t you do this more efficiently later and keep more to yourself?” The demons clutch your pouches of silver and gold with your own hands. “There isn’t enough for everyone,” is the lie they tell you, playing upon your fear.

There is enough. Each of us work in our own ways. Each of us works together to make more when there isn’t enough. We build and we invent and we ask each other for help. That is how we grow. There will always be enough because together we can overcome *anything*.

Do not harm yourself by not giving. The one you are denying is you. The hoard you are keeping is poison to your soul.

The other sin I’ve been asked to speak on, with the blessing of Prosecutor Markus, is Heresy.

Heretics come to us and they tell us they know the secrets of the universe. The Rime Clans and the cowardly northerners who follow their myths tell us that we must be slaves to their demons and harm ourselves and make ourselves small so the demons don’t see us. The Vecatrans put nature above themselves and callm down curses upon humanity. The Triumvirate tell us that debasement itself is virtue.

All have one thing in common- they want you to tear down humanity and yourself. They want you to be less. *That* is the essence of heresy. They lie to you. They want to trick you. They offer easy answers because they want to tempt you away from the hard ones- that humanity is meant to improve itself, and it can do that only by avoiding the pitfalls of sin.

That’s the *only way* you can become a better person

Easy answers are tempting. Secrets that seem to say that all of the toil everyone else is doing is unnecessary and that you are being privileged with a “true path” that skips you ahead of everyone else. The truth is that self improvement is hard, but it’s also the only *real* reward. In the end, there are no happy heretics. Even if they never die, they are consumed by a spiral of misery and spite and false promises. They draw on demonic power to prove themselves, but if you really look at them- you can see they are unhappy, broken things. And the only way to save a heretic is cleansing fire to save their soul and return them to God.

None of you are ever going to be heretics. None of you are witches. I trust that because I know each and every one of you wants to actually grow. Each of you wants the truth.
But heresy is dangerous because it’s so believable. They are lies specifically crafted to tempt you and draw you in. They play upon what you know and what you don’t know. They find that line, and answer your questions and uncertainties with lies. And if you listen, they are cutting into your soul to make you less.

Do not let them. Do not listen. If you recognize heresy and end the conversation or stop reading the text, you are whole and undamaged. You have seen the corruption and refused it. If you know someone, and find out later they are a witch or a heretic, your soul is still whole provided you do what you can to end their debasement of humanity. Call upon the inquisition. They are rough at times, I know, but it is only because they carry a heavy burden to guard all our souls.

The Crowning of the Grafin

The day was overcast as it often is in the early spring days in Lystadt. The ornate coffin of Eberhard von Heidrich sat on display in the public square, arrayed with red roses and guarded in vigil by the Knights of the Inevitable Truth. Several commoners of the city surrounded his remains, bent in silent prayer. On horseback, Hezke von Heidrich, the only daughter and eldest surviving child of our former Sovereign, approached. She appeared especially weary, doubtless from days of travel. Even her muscular warhorse behaved with unease as she dismounted to receive the formal bows from the Knights of her Order. She handed off her mount and refused escort up the long stairs to the Paper Keep, which she ascended with great heaviness in her stride.

At the castle, the Herzog Sewolt von Fafnir, greeted Hezke, flanked by his retinue. He is an older man, but has bright, clear eyes and stands with the posture of a soldier. He offered his condolences and confided that Hezke’s father was a dear friend, and trusted confidant. He expressed how he has always valued the loyalty and trust of Heidrich, and respects Hezke as a soldier. He spoke at great length about legacy, future generations, his efforts to preserve the power and dignity of Fafnir, and his hopes for his eldest son and heir, Wernher von Fafnir. Lord Fafnir clasped her right hand in both of his for many long seconds, conveying much with his eyes before breaking the moment with a subtle nod. He and his companions exited the hall, leaving her to greet her mother and brother. The reunion between them was tender and even I struggle to put it into the words befitting.

In the morning, the funeral was conducted, and commoners from the entire city and surrounding villages turned out, packing the streets to get a view of the casket being carried to the chapel. On her journey into the church, Hezke looked no more rested than the day previous, but she carried herself with great purpose. After the funeral, the Bishop of Lystadt calls Hezke’s mother forward and offered the crown that Hezke’s father wore to her. She took it and then carried it through the streets in a procession towards the Paper Keep, flanked by Hezke and the Order. Upon a castle balcony that addresses the town square, a ceremony took place wherein Hezke was asked to kneel before Sewolt and he offered her the crown in exchange for her sworn oaths of fealty, which she made before the assembled crowd. Once the formalities concluded, she was flooded by various requests and appointments as the council attempted to learn her will and best execute her intentions in Lystadt after she returned to Stragosa.

Shariqyn: Ettiquette towards Wives (translated)

Text translated from Shariqyn to Rogalt:

” Women are the greatest of treasures, and men who marry must lavish them in comforts and luxuries. In Shariqyn society, a man is incapable of having honors for himself – he only gains esteem in those things he gives to his wife, be they directly useful such as fine clothing, or symbolic of some accomplishment, like a stone that may only be found in the place he has conquered in war, a man’s social value is reflected most strongly in the ways he can grant these things to his wife.

A Shariqyn man, aside from showing his devotion to his wives through presenting them with wealth and comfort, is in many ways judged by his diction, that is, his choice of words, in relation to their women. For example, a man who bestows wealth upon his wife, but does not listen to her advice and does not tell her he appreciates her council, but instead disregards it, is seen as a poor husband. Should he use language that is ambivalent or lacks appropriate enthusiasm, his wife or others observing a conversation between spouses may take offense. Other women are often warned and the man, more often than not, ceases to be able to find another wife, regardless of his wealth. Other men also look down upon the man as he has failed to fulfill his duties to his wife.

A Shariqyn man who has recently married is required to remind his wife of his affection for her no less than once daily. The most common form of this is simply words of praise followed by the statement ‘al enahim ebi kali ehr’ which roughly translates to ‘an oasis in a sea of sand’. In the days of nomads, a life which some still endure, oasis are the life’s blood of the dessert. An oasis is that which gives life where there is otherwise none, similar to how a wife may give a better life to her husband and bring new life into the world of his blood. Even after the two have been married for many years, it is important for him to remind her of his affections through words and actions lest she cease to give him council or heirs.

When a woman married to a Shariqyn man gives birth to a child, she is honored. Traditionally, the woman’s bestows a gift upon her just after his child is born. Though no gift can compare to that which she has given him through the growth and birth of his child, it is important that a man give his wife something that has immense meaning and/or value after her first nursing and rest after the child is born. Should she die during childbirth, a single drop of the water which holds the mothers soul is swept over the forehead of the newborn child so that her protection and wisdom may guard over him always. After a woman who has died in childbirth is laid to rest, her husband is required to take a grieving period in which he may not marry again for three months post his wife’s death. The gift he had meant to give to his wife is to be later passed to the child when they become seven along with a story honoring his late wife, the child’s mother. “

Death or Freedom, A Legendary Tale by Clagh O’Mugnahn, True Son of Dunland

To you, my humble reader, I bid welcome and congratulations. You have the pleasure of reading one of the finest works of literature ever to be produced in the world, and certainly the finest in Gotha. For it is I, Sebastian de Aquila, who the people acclaim as none other than the most infamous charmer, poet, dandy and impeccable lover of Costa Luceste; whose penmanship and swordsmanship is unparalleled, whose poise and grace is unmatchable, and whose sonnets and ballads woo the noble ladies of Aquila.

Alas, my humble bibliophile, I cannot once again steal the show, as I did to Gottfried von Laatzen in the summer of 600. Instead I will narrate to you the description of a man who, after sharing an evening sharing glasses of wine and flagons of dark ale, I have come to admire as a man of action, of tenacity, of effrontery, and of intrepid spirit. He calls himself Clagh O’Mugnahn, which he has disclosed translates to “Stone, descendant of Mugnahn,” in Gothic. It is a fitting name for him as he is by trade a miner. You may be tempted to cease your perusal of this document upon learning that the subject is but a common man, but I bid you to continue, as I have seldom met a soul as gilded as that of Good Clagh. And it is known that great deeds often stem from humble origins, as I portrayed in my critically acclaimed drama Blacksmith of Wood.

That night, as the ale and spirits cascaded, Good Clagh regaled me with the origination tale of his surname. It seems that long ago in the Age of Heroes there was a Good King Caomhán and his loyal knight, the seminal Mugnahn, who lived on the island of Íomhair, on which Good Clagh and his house still live. Good King Caomhán’s rule was wise and just and the people thrived under his jurisdiction, but those from without began to grow envious of Íomhair’s growing bounty. All of these ne’er-do-wells coalesced under the banner of Nathair, a sea-captain who had set his sights on possessing fertile lands. The bannermen of Good King Caomhán and Cunning Nathair met on the field of Réimse Glas to decide once and for all who the Lord of Íomhair would be. At this point in the telling of this tale Good Clagh must have had enough dark ale to kill a lesser man, and yet he still continued though I admit that I may have misheard some of the names given in his account due to my own battle with the spirits of the bottle. Continuing on, Good Clagh details how, at the height of the battle, Good King Caomhán is fighting furiously with the Cunning Nathair but ever so slowly, the Good King is gaining the upper hand. Then, just as it seems that the Good King is about to deal the finishing blow, Cunning Nathair transforms into a giant winged blue serpent, who is hereafter referred to as Nathair Gorm. Nathair Gorm regains their advantage, and the Good King is struck low by Nathair Gorm’s devilish form. The men of Íomhair, suffering greatly against Nathair’s Invaders, begin to buckle at the sight of Nathair Gorm and they begin to flee. It is at the point that the Great Warrior Mugnahn, previously defending his lord’s life against the Invaders, shouts a challenge of single combat to Nathair Gorm. The conditions are thus; if Mugnahn dies, his people shall be free from persecution. If Nathair Gorm dies, the Invaders shall turn back and be exiled from this land. Possibly incensed by his recent fortunes and amused by the absurd proposition that the Invaders would agree to the outcome one way or another, Nathair Gorm accepts. These two titans clash and Nathair Gorm is taken aback by Mugnahn’s ferocity. Mugnahn fights with the strength of twenty men, and bit by bit, he is able to pierce Nathair Gorm’s armored hide enough to deliver the final fatal blow. The Good King’s men cheer and Nathair’s Invaders are shocked by Mugnahn’s ferocity but move as if they mean to continue the battle just as it had left off, that is until they look upon the visage of Mugnahn, who has stripped bare and bathed himself in the blood of the defeated Nathair Gorm. The sight was too much for Nathair’s Invaders to bear and they turned and fled back into the sea from which they came.

It is my opinion that such an outlandish tale cannot possibly be anything but a child’s fable, with a narrative structure similar to Certainty Of Eternity, but Good Clagh told the tale with such impassioned zeal that I could naught by be impressed. Having at this time been into our cups for some while, I bid the Good Clagh good night and slipped silently into a slumber, but I hope to have the pleasure of dining with the True Son of Dunland once again.

The Observer, Aab’oran Bariq Primer

As those who are familiar with His teachings know, insight was distilled into 142 Precepts that form the foundation of our understanding towards greater enlightenment and the advancement of our Eidolon.

While enumerating and expanding on each precept might provide progress for one already familiar with the teachings the purpose of this pen is to serve as a primer of some of the basic concepts core to the teachings of Aab’oran Bariq.

From that foundation, we will attempt to draw on metaphor, simile, and imagery to help illustrate to those who may not possess an appropriate perspective. That position, the intention to gain perspective, will be referred to as The Observer and will serve as our medium for exchange.

Conceive of, if you will, a feast before you. From end to end is the longest table you can imagine and arrayed upon are all the options to eat that you can both imagine and can not. Dishes lost to time or yet to be thought of, as well as food that exists but yet you have no knowledge. This feast and the food presented is the Verge of your Observer. You can not see more details from your Verge than you are able, unable to perceive what is at the endless terminus of one side of the table nor the details of the dish piled behind others just in front of you. If you choose to remain stationary then your choices are finite but not any less gratifying. From your position, you select an item and you may find that perhaps the fruit you sought has rot on the side which you could not view thus making you ill. Or the fruit was obscuring the pastry you wish you had known about. Selecting the fruit that makes to you ill may mean that you can not select the pastry, or it may mean that while you can still have the pastry your taste of it is soured or compromised because of your illness. This is the seminal issue with the single perspective Observer and why the ultimate goal of pursuing one’s Eidolon is key to Bariq.

Continuing from the example before, previously your Observer was stationary and permitted only their single Verge. But if you allow your Observer to travel, as many of us do, then you will find that it opens up the entire possibility choices within the feast. Now your only limit is the time it takes to travel and inspect this never-ending feast. As such we arrive at our next concern. The meals within the feast do not remain in place nor are they ever present. You may have an option for a roast but that roast will go cold with time and deprive the meal of satisfaction or the unseen hands of fate may remove the cold, or even fresh, roast and replace it with some other item. This means that after long or even unending scrutiny you decide you wish for that roast is may be cold, moved, or simply no longer present. So how do we accomplish our seemingly endless choices, we must create new Verges to share the burden of our hungry trial. When we look up from the table we realize that we are not the only ones around the table. In fact, there are dozens if not hundreds of mirrors of ourselves also looking for the perfect meal. While we all may vary from slight changes to radical anomalies what we all share is a single mind as to what we would find to be our perfect meal. So we begin to coordinate, to call out to one another to gain the advantage of time, distance, and perspective. No longer operating within a single Verge we magnify our pursuits many fold, but we still find limits.

Expanding on the limits described previously, while we have found a unity of purpose our methods are crude. Shouting to one another can create a cacophony that is almost as unhelpful as it attempts to further our goals. Perhaps we must carry the perspective of our Observer over a great distance which compromises time and risks clarity. Thus the concept of Meditation develops. The practice of rising above the din at the tableside. You gain an advantageous perspective that grants not only greater personal view but also clarity among your peers. You can be a single focal point to collect and disseminate the options of choices before you. If others also join you then your relays of information grow in clarity and can travel more quickly to all the endless edges of the feast. But tragically none can remain in meditation forever. While you search for your perfect meal you also must feed and rest yourself. Thus the chain of communication breaks and the collective loses your perspective and personal knowledge when you lower yourself requiring others to learn what you once knew and piece together your progress until you return.

With a method for a clear exchange of information our greatest limitation appears to be our physiological failings. But even those can be advantageous for those willing to wait. For if you realize that your existence and your perception of time is entirely contained within the measure of your expectations you can free yourself of that pressure. There will come a point when your physiology will break, it will cease to function through misfortune, strife, or entropy and when that occurs the prepared Observer will rise and claim a timeless presence among those who Mediate. Providing an unbroken stream of knowledge and wisdom. With a single perfect gesture, they can relay all they once knew, all they know, and all they foresee. They are the cornerstones to our pursuit of our perfect intent.

Thus within ourselves, we possess everything we need to locate the perfect meal the first time and every time. But we must know what we need before we want something that we are distracted by. We must free ourselves of the confines of our expectations. When we first Observed the table we knew it to be a bounty of food because we were told it was food. But we made the mistake of assuming or someone told us that there were options on that table that are NOT food. This could be the cutlery, the dishes, the candles, or the flame. Once we free ourselves of the expectations of limits we can observe the meal that does not exist as a choice in the first place. We can consume the essence that is the concept of the perfect meal rather than the fruit, dessert, or delicacy of our misinformation.

This is the pursuit of Eidolon and by conducting yourself within the expectations of your Atma you may cloud your possibilities with the tradition, bias, and restrictions yoked upon you by those who found themselves yoked by others not knowing any better. If unclear by not the perfect meal you seek is an allegory for choice. They are the choices that are presented to us each moment and in every breath. Sometimes you will have to choose between your loyal friend or your lover as the hand of a madman swings a blade beseeching you to choose. While limited the pursuit of Eidolon allows you to observe that your options may include to accoste the madman, to deliver news that brings them to their knees or has them weep in anguished regret. The truth is that there are rarely any good choices from our single Verge as a single Observer. We must do all we can to elevate our understanding so as to take the single perfect step and bring out our perfect cascade for then, and only then, will we have walked the path.

On Sin

On Sin

The Pancreator made Humanity with Meaning. Our Meaning has certain qualities one of which is Libertas. Our LIberty is part of us and defends itself. Each of us rebels from the Despair of the World, from the things which would Oppress and Shackle us. Our Meaning demands Liberty.

When we are oppressed by the Sorrows, we assert our Selves beyond any other obligations. Our Assertions remind us of the Pride of being Human, the Ache of Wanting, the Rise of the Blood. These things dispel the Sorrows and Bring Joy.

However, do not be brought low by Vainglorious thinking. The Libertas can become overpowering. It can become a heady wine. When all of us are Drunk at the same time, the world cannot contain it. Let your Libertas flow in small rivers until the day of Completion draws near. The World must grow to join us and until then, the Secret must be kept.
You are the Rose, you are the Dawn, the beauty and light of the world.

For the Conquest of Joy,

Praemonstrator Lumin

Bastione Montcorbier – Gentleman Fencer, Author (Renowned)

Bastione is the master student of renowned sabreur duelist Madame Capitaine Marie du Castellonia, After earning her trust, he became her Second in numerous duels fought from Capacionne, to Hestralia. While traveling with Madame Capitaine he mastered her Art du Sabreur, and is a well known instructor of the style.

He is most famous for penning a manual on the subject entitled Une Introduction élémentaire à l’art du Sabreur which includes instruction on the sabreur, and offers a code of honorable conduct for students, including a set of rules for dueling based on Madame Capitaine’s teachings.

(Awaiting character approval.)