Hail, Sapience. I write this missive with permission from the Messiah of
the Damned, Cypra Lichlord. It is an account of a small occurrence
between my father and I. I thank Katia Lokelinde Le'Murzen for turning
my scattered memories and patchy details into a readable passage.

I looked at the man who was my father, and the rune etched into his
forehead once again caught my eye, the perfect mark of an imperfect
Goddess, the mark of Miramar still upon him, despite his allegiance now
sworn to Mhaldor. I called for a blade, and a dirk was passed to me, its
edge keen. Turning to face my father, I surveyed the mark once more, and
gritted my teeth, mind made up.
'I'm getting rid of that tattoo on your forehead.' I told him, and
pushed him to sit on the stone bench before Mhaldorus, the great Demon
watching on.

A fire burned behind me, casting his face into relief, bringing the
hated mark into greater note. I plunged the blade into the fire, the
hiss of the coals soothing my ears.
A small gathering of loyal citizens came to watch this, to see my father
shed the last vestige of his weakness. Looking around at them, he spoke
in a low voice, 'Time to rinse the last part of my history, through
blood.' With that he gritted his teeth and turned to me, 'Do it' he said
simply.

I stood looking down at my father, and nodded, a pair of hands holding
his head in place, as I placed the dirk to his skin, cutting around the
hated mark, 'No more will Justice be your problem, in your life, in your
mind... or on your skin.' The blood started to run down his face and
over my fingers, and I couldn't stop my lip curling in disgust. My
father, held in place, shook with the pain as I slid the dirk beneath
the mark, severing the nerves and connections that bound skin to temple,
the blood pouring freely now, but he did not make a sound.

I stepped back, looking down at him, the flesh barely hanging to his
face
'You entered into the world of Justice. Only you can leave it. You must
tear the scales off yourself.' I spoke the words through gritted teeth,
the hated mark upon my father almost gone now, but it had to be by his
hand it was removed, as it was by his hand he entered. He growled,
clenching his teeth and ripped the flesh from his temple, leaving a
gaping bloody wound that bled so much his face turned crimson with it.

'Justice holds no sway over you now, father.' The words came from my
lips without conscious thought, as if another guided my words, and he
nodded, then demanded I sear the wound, so with fire and blade, I sealed
it away, leaving only and angry wound to show that my father was once
weak. Pain brings him strength and in this he is now free of the taint
that for so long held sway over him. And in doing so, I also removed
from myself any weakness that remained from my time beside him in that
cursed place.


Truth Three: Weakness must be eliminated in all its forms: Physical,
Mental, and
Spiritual.

Truth Six: The mind may be made stronger through the elimination of
conscience. One does this by inflicting pain on others.

Truth Seven: The spirit may be made stronger by enduring hardships, both
self-imposed and externally-imposed.

In service,
Gildenlow Stormcrow-Snowhunter
Son of Leigh and Carmell
Slave of Mhaldor

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Phaestian, in the year 420 AF.