The Record of Lucrecia the Omen

[Phoebe]

Come take my hand, Your debt is paid
Weep not for us, we weep for you
To spend your life in mud afraid
Thy washed of tears, now pure as dew
Now walk with us, thy life repaid
We journey on, as new blood grew

This is an old funeral rite from the Alcove of True Faith Shaded, that little monastery in the stone now gone forever. I doubt I truly am the last of them, I predict there must be at least thirty of the two-hundred who lived there, but the few I united with shared my pursuit of journeying to the Ba'zeel's strange citadel in the sands. They spoke them unfaithful, weak and undevoting.

I can't say they're wrong, only the Waradim seems truly devoted, but I cannot live in a world surrounded by the Cycle of Lords' devouts any longer, that luxury is gone. All I can do is dedicate myself to what remains, live as a record of the Alcove's teachings and tend to the poor, the weak, the ill.

a little diary. Is this how I cope with swimming in ape feces? I suppose there's more foolish ways, like engorging on those muffins the bar sells. I can't spend so much on those things, I've Domhnall and tithes and- cost of living, and restocking waters. I need somewhere to organize, somewhere where I don't have to force myself on these wild escapades...

But they're so well-crafted and crumbly. So delicately hearty. Forgive me Martyrs, I shall go the night without drinking water as penance.

[Phoebe]

Why brother, Why
We give so much and yet they weep, what more do we sacrifice?
Gamil said to Kalim, There is no number of sacrifices that will suffice
We weep and bleed and cut but tears and blood and flesh
Treasures so vital to life, to be given in half measures, a folly
None can cherish but one, Kalim said, understanding. If we are to be salvation
We must give all, make life into life, keep Praj'raj from taking our Beloved
Come, we have much work to do.

This is an old verse from Martyr Pater, before he made his venerated journey, detailing the last conversation the Martyrs had before they became true Gods. ... It is remembered purely from memory, so the phrasing feels coarse, and rough. I need someone of better writing than myself if I am to publish this one.

I give a lot to the Well, too. I'm starting to wish I didn't. The woman in the Gutter, the ominous shade of her blade- there is life worth preserving, but I fear hers is a black hole that shan't be accepted. A risky sort, too.

[An angry scribbling]

This should not be kept in this record. Silly of me. Reports of Domhnall's breakdown has made me feel so frustrated. How much do I put into other people's ventures before I am to martyr myself as well? --- so much of my Monkey Money went to Mari's pockets---

I hope I've done enough for people to understand me as an ally. I've done too much exclusive front-work, I need to preserve the Alcove's dignity.

O Fallen, O Beaten
O sorry soul cast asunder
Take heart, and be dreaming
Mourn (his/her/their)[?] soul as they slumber
But do not tether yourself to [his/her/their] anchor!
Cry, weep, but do not bury yourself!
Death is to better the living, not to join the fallen.

[Phoebe]

Fuck.

[Phoebe]

The Shepard's tale is a message of how the Martyrs laid a man alongside his camel, freeing them from a terrible, wrongful exile.

NOT LAID

THE MARTYRS CONVINCED HIM THAT THERE IS A PEACE BEYOND WANDERING THE SANDS FOR ETERNITY AND TO CHOOSE GENTLE SACRIFICE OVER BLISTERING STAGNATION

Oh Martyrs forgive me but he's...

Half the page is scratched out

[Phoebe]

No matter what, I will never forget you
O! Thou soul lost forever, if only it could be me!
Brother, brother! No Martyr am I, shackle me to life!
Mine faithlessness be repented, debts unfulfilled!
Until my own time, I carve myself for our Twins
Thou are a true Martyr! I praise you!

This is an old tale of Martyr Sigmund, one of two twins who arrived from another world. Knowing nothing of the Wheel, his brother, Martyr Sigurd, would sacrifice himself to relieve the souls of a plagued town. Martyr Sigmund, a faithless fool at the time, sneered at his brother for his perceived foolishness, but as time passed, as his brother began to wither, heartbreak and regret bloomed. After Sigurd's passing, Sigmund would become as devout and passionate a Twindari could ever be.

I am as passionate and devout a Twindari could be. I held anxiety in my heart, but the Alcove of the Well- which I hope to evolve into a true place of comfort- has opened. With this, I can begin administering necessary healing to the needy and lost. The plague of blood, of Gloom and apathy. Perhaps, I can prevent this one before it ever slays the land. It'll be expensive, but that's well. People are charitable here.

SHACKLE ME TO LIFE
SHACKLE ME TO LIFE
SHACKLE ME TO LIFE

No matter what, I will never forget you.