Inferno, summit, thunder, crone. On the six coloured pairs is our message flown. Words given in times of folly to those who could lead and would lead and must lead - yet are neither masters nor monarchs.

Twelve by twelve since the splitting of the four. So comes the inevitable to pass. Relieved of the king's boot, the egos of the powerful flex and stray from their charge, and so it falls to us to watch, and wait, as decades pass with no king and no diamond crown.

Tumult and war are only natural and to be expected. That they dare affect our homes is beyond the pale. That they encroach beyond their bounds to wage their war cannot be allowed to continue.

Four sleep and four go to battle. Only by the aid of the vigil can the conduits awake to halt the war's advance.

Long have we awaited this day, watching from our posts that our lands and homes may be saved from the sundering of the frivolous whims of those who barely recognise our existence.

The Flame of the World shrugs free his bindings. The balance shifts and lo the weight of the scales tips further into conflict.

Wake the conduits, seek the aid of our unending vigil, and stem the tides of war.

Reform the world, for none will do so on our behalf.

~~~ Beneath the rousing words, the image of an ivory lighthouse rises, its crown casting four equidistant beams of light into an invisible sea.~~~

Penned by My hand on the 11th of Chronos, in the year 757 AF.