That was the problem, of course. No thing should be so close, so intimate. Never again.

To lose it entirely, though, would be a sin of a different sort, he decided. Let them judge his intentions just as they would his actions. Let them judge how he viewed himself, how he viewed others.

His decision made, he began the process of copying over each entry, with painstaking accuracy, save for a few things. If one were to watch him, as he did this, one would find the words incomprehensible, not even seeming to be written in letters of any Telanthan dialect. In some cases, a letter would become clear, a capitalized 'H' or 'A' appearing at random within the twisted scratchings of an indecipherable word.

If one were clever, however, and had a mirrored surface, they would find the entries far more legible. If one were to advance the letters oncemore, aside from those capitalized, they would find that the entries even made sense. No instructions of this sort were given, of course. He kept them locked away in his head, as he did with his dreams of fire and glory and vengeance.

The method of his writing, of course, was much a mirror, a symbol, as the book itself. His work took him past dawn, as the suns rose unseen from his windowless study. It took him through the day, hindered as he was by burnt hands and a burnt arm.

It took him from dark to dark, and he never stirred.

I had invited all of those who figure within my plans, to a greater or a lesser degree. There was a pattern to be woven (my apprentice, certainly, would appreciate the comparison), each of the guests directed in a certain way, ideas seeded, things set in motion. One does what one must, to achieve things of importance, or to try to.

My plans have been... disrupted, to some degree. There is the blood of a Reeve on my hands, on this book. People die. Things change.

Something did, of course, but in an entirely different way. The gods move mysteriously, as always, and unexpectedly.

A noble, lying in a pool of his own blood. The Reeve. Caught fleeing by a thrown dagger. The blow of a pious man, a priest even, against a common official, albeit one of some high status. A simple issue? Obviously not.

I did what I could for him, in the alley, and in my own home. A debt created, for that, not in money... Something deeper. Perhaps a responsibility both ways, there are some who feel that way, after saving a life. The first step to being a guardian, however improbably. I have no desire to pursue that particular nuance, however.

The dinner will be held regardless, I've decided. Plans move beyond us, sometimes, and become in and of themselves forces of movement. Ever an instrument. Who could ever escape their fates?

I re-read this, and I find my words nonsensical. My thoughts disordered. If Tzol were here, or Eleia, or perhaps even Venice, they would chide me for my refusal to attend to basic things. I still forget to sleep, forget to eat.

None of them are here, of course. I am left alone, with my ghosts and my dreams and my scheming.

I'll burn this book, I think, and transfer my thoughts finally from this unworthy medium, from among the old butcher's accounts. Move my thoughts from this relic of death and blood and cold calculation. A cleansing with fire, things begun anew. Or perhaps not anew, but... differently. Better, one would hope.

It's dawn now, somewhere, I think. I can't see the light from where I am.

The first message I was given, truly given, from any of the Seven. From my master, Melchior. A single word, and with it a sense of calm that is impossible to translate into words. That single word, to some extent, defines all that I do and feel.

How to achieve unity, when the gods' children are so fragmented, so independent? My master prizes ambition, and yet that same ambition causes division. A paradox. Matters of faith are, by their nature, intricate puzzles, perhaps without solution. And yet it is my task, one of my tasks, to attempt a solution nevertheless. Even knowing it impossible, who could not turn their mind to such a challenge? Do the myths not say all was war, so long ago, before Ylessa and her children brought peace? Can a mortal not seek to aid his god, his gods, in bringing about the same, especially when existence itself remains so... fragile?

Ambition, again, perhaps foolishly. We are what we are.

And so, one would think, solutions would present themselves more readily. This is not the case, of course; as said before, for some things there are no solutions. For some, there are paradoxes. How does one contend with the contradictions of faith?

How can one fail to do all that the Seven might request but, at the same time, not be held still by the impossibility of attempting certain things? How can one put aside the material, for Melchior, and yet appreciate the luxuries of Elbahn? How can one prize life and beauty, for Ylessa, and yet acknowledge the need for dark vengeance and death, for Morhiag?

Complexities. Contradictions. Paradox.

I have said before, I am an instrument. It is said, countless times through the ages, in countless tales, that sometimes a god will enter a man, and move him according to a plan mortal minds have no hope of comprehending. I am a Priest of Melchior, now, and ever in my life. All my actions are for him, my master, for his plans and his wishes, as best as I understand them. But one cannot follow a single master, not where the Seven are concerned, for all things are connected - I have killed, in his name, in my own, in that of the Dark Queen herself. I have felt Ylessa's touch upon my heart, and yet that same touch makes more bitter the anguish, more sharp the need for vengeance.

It occurs to me, in the Dark of my nights, when there is naught to disturb the restless stirrings of my mind, that I am, perhaps, too driven. Too ambitious, as I have said. I forget, sometimes, what I am even striving for, lost as I am within the intricacies of my instructions, of this grand game that I must play. It is a game, of course, moving others as pieces, against a host of opponents of greater experience, of greater skill, of greater resources.

It occurs to me, also, that I have very little chance to win this game. This changes nothing, I still must cast the die. Perhaps Elbahn will grant me some luck.

It is wearying, to balance all of these things within one's mind. To judge oneself, to judge others, to judge consequences. One does what one must, however. We are what we are.

Will you know my name, reader, when this journal is found? Will you come here to burn my works, my words? Or will this record last some years yet, preserved within the city, and you will know nothing of what I speak, of my life? Will you wonder at my struggles, at those whom I faced? Will I have changed anything at all?

I cannot even say to myself, what I would prefer, of the possibilities that exist. To sink into oblivion? To be a mere footnote, one who tried and failed, a brief flaring of light eclipsed by far brighter flames? To achieve something heroic, no matter the cost?

'No matter the cost'. That is the crux of it.

To be something darker? Something hated? To be remembered, after my body is turned to ash and dust, as someone who left his mark upon Aagos, even if that mark is left in blood?

I think, my friend who I shall likely never know, that I would accept that, if it meant success. I would forsake myself, for the greater good. Is that a failing, to have such ambition, to be so ruthless? A virtue, to seek martyrdom in such a way? Perhaps both.

A lament, truly, for that which was lost to him.

Ode to a City Stolen

Return to me, my city,
Let me walk oncemore within you,
Let me taste of your sweet air,
Let my heart endure awhile.

And though none would know it, it led directly to the second, and lent it a painful intensity of emotion. From bitterness, the worst hatred is born.

Arise, You Sons of Idas!

Arise, you sons of Idas,
And arise, you daughters too,
For the time is now upon us,
To remake the world anew!

The third night after it was reported to have been sung, he risked himself willingly to hear it. Cloaked and nondescript, he walked without fear past the whores and the thieves and the murderers, secure in the place that had been home to him for so long, and which remained a home to a dark part of his heart. And he heard it, the tune slowed to a funeral dirge, imparted with solemnity by a scarred warrior seeming near to weeping.

And he was well-pleased.

All of my long-past-due works are now complete, Vuldurn's sheath, the Reeve's cloaks, and I've sufficient coin in the bank (who'd have thought the Telanthans, so scornful of us, would adapt our system with even a modicrum of efficiency?) to be at some leisure now. It'll disappear into my invention soon enough, but at least I can pretend to myself that I don't have to worry about things for a bit.

I think, when it is completed, I shall have to call it something grand.

"He dinnae die, he med eh speech 'ere de othah day."

"Him -did- die. -And- him make a speech here."

"Ah. Onna those, then."

"No, was different. Di'int you 'ear 'is speech?"

"Him -remembered-."

"Nothing, it's not about him."

"Why'd you say-"

"It's Mariv. Mariv Azirni. The tall one over there."

"But him jussa kid!"

"Wealt'y, do'. He say..."

"Us could use some dat wealt'."

"... what? No, be quiet you fool. Mariv doesn't carry that knife as some sort of noble accessory."

"Yeah, I know. He was with us onna job once, in..."

"Don't tell me, really. I don't need to hear it. Better for all of us if you don't spread things like that around."

"Why? 'Snot like yer a stranger to..."

"Let's just talk about the Eyes, alright?"

"Him gun tell us? Him said dere'd be food..."

"There will be food. Plain food, but food nevertheless. There will always be a loaf for you, for your families."

"So... whassee wan' us to do, Ellie?"

"Don't call me that... And he wants you to watch."

Thought it, perhaps, a step too far.

I find it necessary, however. Given the new distance between myself and 'Lord' Aanson, or rather between myself and the Reeve, and the eternal uneasiness (however diminished recently) between myself and Captain Taliesin, there are few official channels that remain open. Vuldurn is reassigned, more a demotion than anything else, and subject to the Reeve's orders, so therefore useless to me in most things.

I was entrusted to aid in the birth of a child, in guarding it.

In raising it.

I now undertake to do as much, by any means. I shall ensure that this child of mine, to extend the metaphor a bit more, will have an upbringing shaped by the Order. By me.

To augment this, I've ensured that Mariv is fully aware of his role in this. Both his role as patriarch if I am oncemore removed from things, so to speak, and his role as my assistant. His friends, our friends really, within the Refugee District, have had no opportunity as of yet to prove themselves, but I'm quite sure they will act as I have predicted. They have precious few other choices, truth be told, so it was not too difficult of a prediction.

I've the Children, though I do not really 'have' them, as no one can have them in that sense. I can rely on them to some degree, though, and predict their actions and responses nearly as well. Mostly not the ones I would wish, but still, useful to know them.

It occurs to me that Lycenth may have abandoned his idea of the 'Black Tide', or may even now be establishing it, in the back-alleys and the dark. I hope earnestly for the former, as it makes my own tasks that much easier, though I've a feeling he would not abandon so 'good' of an idea, merely because of other concerns. If he is not attending to his little project at the moment, then I'm sure he will do so soon.

I'll begin recruiting them, and see what I can make of things. I'll have to check Fedim's list again, to see who we have, and who we can obtain, and who we have yet left untouched.

Still, though, I will make the attempt.

Venice, possessed of some demon of her own I think, decided it better to end her life. No doubt, in some noble sacrifice intended to lay to rest her own, considerable sins. She wrote me a note, perhaps with the intention that the knowledge of this act would give me some ease in my own soul for what she had done.

In all three things, she manifestly failed.

It's petty, but I'm rather glad that -my- attempts to explain things to her met with a great deal more success than Aanson. If I've the clumsiness, he has all of the diplomacy with women as a twice-amputated thief has skill at juggling. More's the pity for him, I suppose. To be fair, though, I've done a great deal to try to... minimize... the damage he's done himself.

In any case, Venice's note arrived in the height of our conversation, and I left immediately. I didn't pause for a torch, or my instruments, or anything at all. I merely ran, and it was by sheer instinct that my feet carried me to that infernal Academy. I ran to Tzol.

Such was my instinct, as I said. I was too panicked, too lost within my own fears, my own heartache, to truly register what was going on. Tzol, as it happened, was injured in a training accident with Aanson. I never received a satisfactory explanation of how that occurred, but we remedied it soon enough with something from the Hospital. That particular mixture would prove quite useful, since the contents of Venice's note indicated one thing quite clearly.

She would head west, to the lakes. To the Darkness. To the Horde.

I am deeply ashamed to admit that, despite all of my courage at the time, despite my ridiculous dagger-waving, my grappling with misshapen wolf-things that lurched out of the night like the horrific dream-beasts of a child, despite all of that I never made it to Venice at all. It was left to Taliesin, and to Tzol, and to Aanson, to others as well. I was felled by a blow I never saw. I was dragged back to the city.

I was worse than useless.

To remedy this, I have thrown myself with greater passion into perfecting my invention. I think I am close, quite close. The mechanism for it I can have ready tomorrow, from all of the supplies I've accumulated, once I contact the metalworkers and carpenters known to me. I could have a model for demonstration to the King himself by week's end. The mixture, however, continues to elude me. It might be effective with simple lantern oil, but it would not be quite so striking then. The properties I seek are sufficiently unique as to turn the course of a battle by fear alone, but the demons will not fear - thus, I need the properties to be a perfect match, to cause actual, grievous harm to those twisted beings of the Dark.

And then, then they will see what my use is. They will see it in the flames themselves.

Of a city, if it can be managed.

I've not yet managed the last, of course. I am but a tailor. But a scholar. But a priest.

I should have a ministry of my own, seperate and self-sufficient. And loyal. Where I am a priest, I should be an abbot. Where I am a priest, I should be an instrument of the gods' will, of Melchior's will, and nothing less.

Is ambition misplaced in these matters? I think not. My master prizes it. Why should I not seek all that I can, when it is for the betterment of the faith?

When I consider the dreams that dwell within my heart, I am shamed at, ironically, the -lack- of shame that I hold in wishing these things. I am proud, I am ambitious, I am manipulative. But my pride is that of an artisan for his work, my ambitions to push forward the edges of knowledge and understanding, my manipulations ever to further Melchior's will through the positioning and powers of the Order.

Tzoli thinks I have gone beyond her, and I dispute that. However, if I must go beyond her, beyond all of the others, so be it. I will do all that I must, without regret. I will manipulate. I will misinform. I will sacrifice of myself and of others.

I will commit dark deeds, ere the year ends.

Bjar Azirni reached the Refugee District, and looked upon the people gathered there to hear him, and realized he had never been more frightened in his life.

Immediately after they arrived, Mariv and Eleia split off, each finding their own friends and other familiar faces, laughing and joking and sending a ripple of reassurance through the restless crowd. Bjar himself waded through them as well, recognizing everyone and no one, the words he uttered barely registering in his mind - bland agreements, empty blessings, mild statements. Arriving at the ramshackle assembly of crates (and if he observed correctly, at least one shattered chair) that would serve him as a stage, he ascended it, looking out over the sea of faces and drawing up all the courage he possessed.

And then he spoke.

All of us have come here, possessing nothing, and the City took us in.

During Nightfall, we suffered. After Daybreak, in the chaos and disorder that briefly followed, we suffered. During the Plague, we suffered yet again."

"Even now, we stand poised upon the edge!" Bjar thunders, his eyes intent upon the crowd, commanding their attention absolutely, silencing their brief mutterings of agreement with no more than a look.

"Even now," he repeats, his voice carrying clearly even as it softens, "We huddle within the City's walls, awaiting what may be the final onslaught of the Dark. When the demons come, some of us will fight. Some of us will wait for the inevitable."

He looks about, focusing on as many individuals as he can, choosing those whose attention seems to waver, attempting with his piercing gaze to oncemore ensnare them.

"There are likely few among you who do not know the name Azirni. You have perhaps known my family as tailors, from our decades of establishment in Yarsin. You women will likely know my brother Mariv, or at least his reputation." A pause as a number of people chuckle knowingly. "Others of you will know my sister, Eleia, by all of the mischief she causes - or those boys who seek to cause mischief -with- her. Don't think I don't know you." Another pause, as more laughter ripples through the crowd, serving to dispel even more of their unease, to warm their expressions as they listen to Bjar.

"And many of you know me, personally. I have mended your garments, or have transformed the plainest linen into clothing that would almost befit nobility." A scattering of murmured acknowledgement, confirmation. "Or, perhaps, you have known me as a physician - Jorich, I helped splint your hand. And Neyla, you came to -me- for advice about your son, did you not?" The murmur increases, people nodding slowly. "Others of you will know me in my position as the Priest of Melchior, and the leader of the Omuit Order. I have blessed you, and advised you, and prayed for you."

He pauses, confident now that he holds the crowd within his thrall, and calls out solemnly, his eyes dark with memory;

"I have spoken to the gods, and I have died by my own hand. And I have -risen again-. I come before you with all of the knowledge I have gained for my sacrifices, with all of the instruction and the answers that I have bought with my blood and pain and tears.

I come before you now, to offer you a third path, besides dying on the battlefield or dying where you hide. I offer you -salvation-, if you only have the courage and the will to walk the path upon which I will lead you."

The masses, swollen now as more arrived to hear his words, begin to mutter, their collective tone becoming uneasy oncemore. He raises his hands.

"I offer you this, but I demand nothing of you, save that you trust in my judgement. When have you, -any- of you, relied upon me and found me to fail you? And those who do not know me - when have you ever been offered such a choice, between suicide and the lingering, fearful death? When have you been offered -hope-, amidst all this despair and corruption and violence?"

He lowers his hands, his words becoming quieter, his tone almost intimate, the entire crowd willed to silence by the sheer -presence- of his voice. He pours into his speech all that he is, remembering the strength of will he required for his ceremony, and tapping oncemore that reservoir.

"I hold aloft my faith as a torch, a Light amidst the Darkness, and I shall walk with no fear, for I have tasted death, and I know that the gods walk beside me so long as I remain devoted to them. Remember what I have said, all of you - if you will only follow that Light, when it is time, I will lead you through the Darkness. There will be suffering, as all mortals must suffer..."

He stops again, his eyes shining with pride, with the fervor possessed only by a zealot, secure in his faith and in his audience, reveling in the moment of his preaching.

"But there will be -salvation-!"

I haved passed through a crucible, I have been purified.

All I have now is purpose.

I have passed from boy to tailor to scholar to priest to... what, prophet? Perhaps.

I have passed from this world to the next and back again.

I have spoken with the Dark Queen directly, I have felt the presence of Melchior in my mind and heart many times, and I have faced down the Forsaken One himself. I have struck at and been struck by the Vek'pem Ahrye, I have fought with passion and conviction against men of every walk and station.

It is different now.

The man I was is dead, I think - now I am an instrument, wholly.

Ever have I strived to please my master, ever I have sought to do his work. My entire life has been a commitment to knowledge, to truth, to the accomplishment of goals to ensure the greater good; oft times, goals beyond my reckoning. Perhaps beyond my abilities.

But I have ever worked towards them, nonetheless.

So many have died, in the world, through the ages. So many have made the long journey to Annwn, have faced the Dark Queen's judgement, have been returned to Aagos or to the Well or to gods know what else. So many have been resurrected, their minds enfeebled by the trauma of their experience, remembering nothing of their pain or their ordeal or of Annwn itself.

I have died. I have been judged. I have returned.

And I remember.

Nevertheless, I shall make some small attempt.

The two things that are most vivid in my memory are the two that I did not see, but rather knew. Sensed. Aside from the sharp pain of the knife as it cut deep into me, into my soul it seemed, and the feel of my life's blood ebbing out agonizingly slowly, I remember two things.

First, Tzoli's anguish. I saw it in her eyes, that she knew, when I said my 'goodbye' to her, ere the ceremony even started. She knew, and I think she understood. But it hurt me, it shook me, it made me almost doubt the wisdom of my sacrifice before I decided it was necessary to make - I was lucky, I imagine, that I had the strength of faith to persevere. It broke her a little, I think. She was the first I found when I was returned and... It broke her. And it broke me as well, inside, to know that I had caused her such pain.

Second, Venice. Not her words, which I could not hear, nor her actions, which I could not see. Masked in her magic and silent, it was as if she was not even there, though I could feel her at my back, watching and waiting and judging. I know her too well not to sense when she is near. It reassured me, at first, but then when I returned and recalled the memory of it, it turned to poison in my heart. When I spoke to her again, despite her obvious gladness at my resurrection, that bitter seed sprouted. Did she weep for me? She said, once, that she needed me. As an instrument, yes. As someone to assist her in her faith and in Melchior's work, yes. As a friend? A confidant? A lover? No, I don't believe so. A part of her is yet cold to me, yet distant. And I think that it shall never change.

I feel stirred now, by a terrible sense of purpose. It colours all that I see; the world itself seems different. Deprived of the comfort of oblivion, I can only recall my death (my -death-; to be able to say that one recalls such a thing, by itself, is misfortune and blessing combined) again and again, each detail painfully clear. In my mind, eternally, I stand upon Annwn's pale shore and gaze upon the Mistress, the Hounds, the Boatman. The mirrored waters and the leaden sky.

I was judged worthy, and by the gods' mercy returned from Annwn. But I fear now that in returning, I have brought Annwn to dwell within my -heart-.

The world is all lead and bone and luminescence, a world of terrifyingly unnatural nature, a world alien and yet as such, perfectly fitting.

He moves, as a sound breaks the tranquility, a whisper that mounts with each passing moment. He scrabbles in the sand, he runs to the edge of the mirror-like water, and he waits.

He fears, viscerally, intensely, the fear of one who has gone so far beyond what they know that all that remains to them is the fear.

And then, through the fog, the Mistress herself comes.

He drops to one knee, desperate fear still grasping at him, but his mind is made clear by a single word, a single stubborn manifestation of will. Faith. His faith will clothe him, will shield him. He need not fear the Mistress, he tells himself, for he has done naught to anger her, and honours her like any other. He tells himself this, and trembles as each of her words falls upon him like a blow, disrupting what calm he manages to rally.

The conversation lasts an eternity.

All else fades from his thoughts, it is only her voice and he that remain. At the edge of his vision, he can glimpse the outline of her figure, regal and beautiful and awe-inspiring. He dares not raise his eyes further.

"Is there some way then, Mistress, that she can yet be saved? Some act, some sacrifice, that will save that 'child'?"

"Yes." Silence follows this, a lifetime's worth, and he begins to fear again, thinking himself abandoned but not wishing to lift his eyes and know for certain. Finally, she continues, "The child must be born. The mother cannot fight, pregnant, overfull as she is."

More words follow, instructions, clarifications, but somewhere in his mind a memory repeats endlessly, afflicting him, distracting him. A Tiress, clutching at her abdomen with clawed, bloody hands, clutching at the gash within her belly. A child, so quickly made aware of, so quickly sworn to protect, and then just as swiftly and irrevocably lost. He feels remembered grief, helplessness, anger.

Never again.

The memory of another child, yet unborn, that he holds within his heart as if it were his own, a faceless infant that evokes unconditional love and yet, also, a certain faint bitterness.

Always, the children suffer.

The conversation ends, the figures turning to disappear oncemore into the fog. The last words carry back to him, conveying the disinterest and the distance that only a god is capable of, called over the Mistress' shoulder as she departs. "Your master also petitioned for your release from my realm... I have decided to grant his request."

And then the world is gone, replaced with cold and dark and hunger. He hugs himself, naked and frightened once more, left alone with only his thoughts, with the weight of Morhiag's judgement still fresh. And he remembers, all that came before, even the sharp pain of the knife through his lung.

He smiles faintly to himself, and nods, his eyes dark as the sky above but glinting with something - hope, ambition, pride. Now... now his true work will begin.

His brother.

And still he could not weep, even as he carefully put away Bjar's possessions, or as he straightened and re-ordered the new supplies that had been obtained. Or as, finally, he withdrew from the shelves a sheaf of papers, and began to read them.

I leave to Venice, also, my knife. Remember."

Mariv stood, and walked to the center of the room, looking around at each piece of furniture, each tapestry. A breeze blew from without, a sudden chill wind unusual in the springtime, causing the door to the street to sway gently.

And then he wept, like a child, for the emptiness he felt.

Of late, and with this last news, I fear that this balance has been overthrown entirely. No, that is incorrect - the balance had shifted long ago, the Darkness overwhelming and the Light just barely remaining, offsetting it a desperate fraction.

Now, the scales themselves would seem as if they would be destroyed, and all else rendered meaningless.

The demons come.

But, nevertheless, I made my preparations. The house nears completion, and I have already moved in our possessions and my siblings; immediately after, I instructed Mariv to sell off all of our fabrics and threads, all those unnecessary and replaceable things, before the story of the horde broke to the greater city.

With this money, I hope to purchase lantern oils, and clay pots, to prepare what meagre defense I could think of, what little assistance I might be able to provide. I recalled that the demons feared fire - or perhaps that is too gracious, to say that they fear, in their twisted minds. They are mortal, I will say instead, and fire harms them they same as any mortal. I know of a mixture, from my studies, that makes the flame live longer, clinging to all that it touches upon; a fearsome weapon, and difficult to use. A small batch, however, should be of some use.

I have also revised my will, should Morhiag find me in the conflict; I wrote it some time ago, when I became Patriarch of the Azirni. Now, I feel it must be somewhat pointless, as there is little hope that the city will endure, much less my own kin. Nevertheless, it is done, and given to Mariv for safe keeping. I look upon him with such pride, and I know my brother will be able to carry on if my fate carries me to Annwn before one could hope. I have ensured also that Tzoli will be cared for, and all others that are dear to me acknowledged and appreciated.

As I noted before, as a man there is very little I can do against the Dark. As a priest, however, I may be capable of far more - I plan to lead a session of prayer, a gathering of all the true faithful that I might lay hands upon. An offering of blood beyond that which I can give myself, to plead with my master for intervention, for mercy. It will be a prayer to surpass any other that I have undertaken, and I admit I am fearful of what answer I will receive; even more fearful that I will receive no answer at all.

If the blood does not suffice, I am prepared to give my life.

Before I go, I will hide this journal away with the other tomes in my study. Some day, perhaps, it will be read by other eyes than mine; the key to the study will remain in my robes, for whomever cares for my body to find.

No matter what happens, I wish to note one last time my love for my kin and for my dear one. Mariv, Eleia, Tzoli - it is people such as you that bring light to the world; never allow your light to dim, nor the others around you to be lost in the Dark. To my Venice - I shall say only that I love you, and that fact alone would be sufficient reason to struggle to return from Annwn itself.

May Melchior guide and bless us all in the dark days ahead, and may the gods have mercy on our souls.