O, Wroth

[Random_White_Guy]

The last few days of Agaslakku a swirl. While the Tournament canceled by its founders beyond Ephian's government, the energy in the air a severe one. Tensions rising with the Accord, the delicate game of politics reaching a climax, swaying sands, rising tensions, tectonic shifting...

Would there be a spark? Would at last come the glorious civil strife of the Accord so many warn of, would the Streets of Ephia run red with Purple, White, Gold, and Accord blood?

...Like a deflated balloon though comes the most profane and darkly uttered curse, the most vile and uncouth word to be uttered, the "C-Word".

Compromise...

As Politics leads to negotiations leads to compromise, like a deflated balloon is peace restored, are threats walked back, is stagnation ceded to.

Though declaration of the Inqusition into the Djinn Urn Expedition declared at a close...

As the clock struck Midnight did the Stone turn. Did the Sigils glow...

The Patron of Paranoia, one eye ever kept for betrayal.

The Scorned Sire, never assuming innocence.

The Fearful, Vindictive, The God of Vengeance.

Whose shrines lay foul with the aggrieved.

Whose intimidating statue sits in the lobby of the Janissaries of The Sultan of Baz'eel's Fourth Legion.

Legate Sol Auk
May these be the first duties undertaken, as the cruel moon passes overhead and the hourglass shifts for a new day's come. O, Wroth. O terrible hand. O reckoning. May the many enemies of Ephia know terror of your rise, as the Stele sits the name Urazzir.

Upon the day Candidates to be named, floats another name.

Urazzir.

Beware.