Visions of another time haunt me. All my inquiries have led me back to one moment, and one place. No error is possible. Ariza Storm, they called it, and sure enough it hosted a thunder which echoes even now. Death stalked its fields, and kept vigil in its silent halls.
I want to speak out, yet I have no audience. Unseen heroes, poised and ready to intervene, are as yet little more than a kind of negative fiction. My hope grows dim, and my presence in the forums of power seems little more than a lurking ghost. Help, it seems, may not come in time to save her.
And still, I refuse to lay down arms. Since I learned of their awful intent, and of that superscripted entity who lurks at the beginning of names, I have had but one aim in my discourse and motion. Selected not at random, not by chance, but by the overpowring will of men, she marches towards grim destiny. Even they cannot now know where their game will lead. To say otherwise would be arrogance beyond even those ancient warlocks.
Absolution lies tantalisingly out of reach. Time is running out. Regard well those missives which you will receive. Always keep about you a readiness to stand forth against the night.
Perhaps some possibility of redemption yet remains.
Spread word of the coming night; no army will be too large for what awaits.
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