Archaeon, child,


Oblivion rolls ever forward, like the rapid current of a river in flood, and, yet, you continue to swim upstream. Your limbs are flailing, weighted down by the force of waters too strong and too swift, the waves of what has always been meant to come crashing over your head. In the desperate panic that precedes your unavoidable doom, the rational mind that is the mark of a man grown has devolved into infantile frenzy. You grasp madly at the lifelines of your long-instilled ideals, which are now made ineptly manifest in your simple rage.


You may defile unto the end, and it will matter not. One shrine fewer, or a thousand, will not stop the coming of the Inevitability, any more than the shoddy dikes of old Shallam could withstand the waters that overwhelmed them. This is a riptide so vicious and virulent that no man or God shall escape it. Your struggles will only serve to exhaust you. You will drown more quickly than the rest.

See you soon,
Katalyst Rozzan

Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Sarapin, in the year 842 AF.