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Ang espada ng katarungan ay matulin at matalas

The sword of justice is swift and sharp

* * * * * * * * * It is in the insane asylum in this merchant city that I've been placed. I was once known as the scholar, Riah. I have been placed in this wretched place for the time being, for numerously individuals have pictured me as a lunatic.

I have carried the burden. I have performed the work of heaven. I have performed the work of hell. As a young man I hear clearly babble. But as one who has been tortured, these sounds are depicted as screaming and laughing, constant screaming and laughing. It sounded like they were screaming, laughing, and calling for me. Who's to say, maybe they were. Maybe I was insane.

I've been writing in this journal now for quite some time. You my dear journal book are the only friend to me. You can hear my words, and my thoughts. I will pour my visions and words into you like a fountain of knowledge. I only hope that evil does not discover you first. For evil will then know my thoughts, be inside my head, inside my very soul. Evil is the reason I am in here. The truth is too terrifying and horrendous to those of more joyful lives. They choose to lock me up, than face the truth. It was their choice to ignore me. It was their choice to die.

On an evening with the sun shining bright, A man who awkwardly staggered into my cell. He wore an ebony colored cloak and carried an ivory colored object. This object was of petty importance to me at the moment. His guise was shrouded in the cloak of shining black and although I could visualize his frame, his face was equivalent to the amount of mystery of why he had come.

I peered at the gray, cold, hard stone trying hopelessly to be picking at something that didn't seem to be there. Something shiny, something bright, and the hue of the golden sun. My attention snapped when the man slammed the doors behind himself. Fortified doors, the only way out. The way out to freedom, the way out to the world of the living, for I was dead, in my own eyes.

The cloaked figure called my name and I wreathed and turned, trying to adjust myself upright. The restraining jacket I had on was exceedingly uncomfortable and rather difficult to move in. He called my name again, and I looked straight up, balancing myself with my knees. He was standing against the window. The sun made him appear brighter and suddenly my eyes flashed.

Behold, I saw his wings, his beautiful angelic wings. Growing out of his back, swaying to a wind I could not feel. Dancing with invisible air. Gleaming in the superfluously bright sunlight. My eyes flashed again. His wings were gone, and the sunlight suddenly got swept by a cloud. Darkness filled my cell.

The cloaked figure called my name and told me that he's been searching for me. Searching for a long time. To my surprised he sat down, and fixed himself on a stool. Little bits of white seemed to be trickling down the cloaked man's face. Though I could not see his face, I told myself it was only a trick of the eye. I realized he was leaning against the wall and quickly pushed myself to the other side, wishing to not get too close.

In a sad tone I whispered. "What fires burn within my heart and force me to contend, with the perils that await me at this tragic journey's end". He asked me why I would repeat such an old poem. I replied that it reminded me of my own, tragic, miserable life.

Seeing how he seemed placate, I grabbed my pillowcase from off my bed and pulled from it a slip of paper that began my journey. I handed it to him and he read it out loud.



Dear Enero,



I write you to address my growing concerns regarding your recent contemptuous speech and that of your fellow deacons. For the past few months, I have seen a certain shadowing of your spirits that I can hardly account for. You and your brothers are First amongst the Chosen of the Cisum Church to lead King Edward's land into the light. If the people or the press as so much as suspect a rift between the Cisum and the Solmire, I fear we would lose much of the control we have gained over this ancient, troubled land.

Our line was charged, longs ago, with watching over the world and its peoples. As you know, it is our duty to spread, enforce, and protect the glory of the Light to all corners of the known world, whether it be welcomed or not. But most importantly, the Solmire entrusted your Church to maintain the wards that keep our dark guest chained beneath ruined temples in Maltsirt, Neitorp, and Tul Nielog. Since it has been your only responsibility to safeguard the Spiritstone in Maltsirt, I must wonder if perhaps your dread task isn't affecting your noble spirits in some malign way.

Whatever the cause of your recent rebellions against the Solmire, I wish to see you retract as both the death of the Cisum and the Solmire could mean no protection against darkness. We the Solmire have been diminishing over the past because of very strong evil, and very weak faith. If you have not the strength of good will to perform your duties like a true servant of the light, then I must implore you to find someone who can. The binding of Diremyth is paramount to the safety and the future of the Cisum and Solmire Alliance. I will not see our churches threatened by the pettiness and jealousy of its servants.



Sincerely,

Alabostir of the Solmire



At me he gazed for what seemed like an eternity and finally spoke. "Maltsirt?" he said in a bewildered tone. Maltsirt had been entirely demolished by creatures of great horror, I explained. He asked me of the Solmire. I told him that there was only one surviving person of the Solmire clan. Osor, the surviving Solmire. I abruptly paused for quite some time, then I said he also lived in Martsirt.

Alabostir, I commented, was the patron of the Solmire, had been tragically lured into a river by the song of a siren. When the siren sang, he came towards her charming, yet deadly song, only to be ripped apart as he lovingly gazed upon her beautiful face.

Sad isn't it? He muttered with a slight sound of amusement in his voice. With an astonished look on my face, I blinked, and again came the vision.

His mantle had turn in a shade of blinding white. His wings had returned and had once again oscillated to the rhythm of a noiseless drum. This time I heard sounds. A choir of angelic voices seemed to radiate from the man. Once again I blinked and the room was once again engulfed in darkness.

I thought for a moment. The robe of white, the luminous feathery wings, the angelic music. Wheels of knowledge began to gyrate in my head, and I finally realized who the cloaked man was. The archangel Ledatic, I should have known.

Ledatic, I said, I should've known you'd travel in disguise . . . they're always watching. He shifted his stance and sighed deeply. He said that I've been hiding so much, he stand I seemed like I didn't want to be found.

I started to whimper. Its not my fault, I exclaimed. He looked at me with eyes I could not see. I remember this clearly, dear journal, for his words spread through my veins like poison. "Not your fault?" He said, "Tell me why this whole subject is not your fault."

The wanderer I said, the once good man from Maltsirt. This all originated from him.