Only your vigil remains...

We must reach for the sword at the Heart of Oblivion and become the Fear that the beasts do not yet possess.

Let crow fly,

On marksman training: Seek not the greatest hand, but the wisest teacher.

“The night consumes. Grip the edge of twilight, gaze at the failing of light—but we all fall in the end. Try not to worry yourself so...

The wolf and the hound are nothing but a chain apart.

Pray not to any God, for even adrift, they may yet hear you. Seek not their mercies, any more than one might seek warmth from the wildfire.

Man and beast are both formed in the dark solitude of impenetrable waters. What terrors the vast Deep must collect then, where neither can be seen, yet both are at once.

What Road wept you here, Vigil Keeper?

Desolation is not empty. I have seen the hollowing of nations; the broken can be beautiful, the unfinished can be romantic.

Saint Stanislaus cut out his own heart after the Battle of Tiernal and threw it into the lake where so many of his soldiers drowned.

Look how the blood beats around this city. Enough to slip in, to wallow in—but not enough see.

Burn soldier, burn spire

The railways of Ouldrith wind around the jagged landscape like wrought iron sigils burnt into the stone.

Beast is a title earned in blood. Beware, for a beast may yet be beautiful.

Terrors do not wait

The discarded dogs of bombed streets sleep where witches are buried. That’s how a man may know. A living witch, the vile thing, is a mystery, and judgement fulfilled only after the execution is through. So we must end all we can, to keep that which remains safe from the vicious whispers of the bestial.

The rose is the augur of priests above all others, regardless of their calling. Beauty marred with thorns. Beauty, that withers when taken for petty display. Willingly do the holy bleed, hands clenched around dark, hungry stems.