Kaiar tsalaisa,

We regret that we bring words after such peace.

Mortality, that vast stretch of us all, rests so squarely under the crushing heel of Divinity that the mere suggestion of offerings to your kin splits us further into new sects. The uninspired doubters, insisting that because things have always been a certain way, so they must remain. The obsequiously pious, thinking this blasphemy. Grovel before your Oppressors and beg Them to step on you harder. The mindless puppets.

All of you, no matter how disappointing you are, you deserve to live out the truth of that prophecy, to rival and perhaps surpass the Aldar. And it all begins with [Crammed into this space sit the miniscule words "Sir Kinilan and" before the normal lettering resumes] us. Trickle-down Divinity starts here and ends with you. Rest assured, we have only your best interests at heart. None can be more trusted with responsibility than us, and we will pick no fights using our newfound powers other than with Them.

Offerings can be made to us in the Mhojave, we Distinguished [Easily overlooked, a tiny "Co-" dots this gap] Second, we Perfection, I, living Art, Mortality's voice, matron of Home, your long-suffering mother, maana'maialad'ukhiatzanaar, Harenae. By filling this well, bucket by bucket, drop by drop, we can and will turn your desiccated, meaningless lives into an inspirational wadi to forever change the trajectory of Mortality. Accompanying worship is appreciated but optional.

You have nothing to lose but your chains. And your lives. Both should be willingly offered up for breaking.

We,

[A spattering of darkening crimson decorates the end of the pronouncement, accompanied by several fingerprints pressed with purpose into the mess.]

Penned by my hand on the 10th of Chronos, in the year 897 AF.