Amun Jaro, last of my clans hold, descendant of Ivad and keeper of the one true voice of Lacon. Pact keeper to the Land and to those beyond it (for they do not dwell just above and below, but in between and within). Fallen Maester of the Arcanuum that I now denounce, strider of both the Intellectus and Corpus paths, undying and reborn. Ammon who treads the true spiral, again and again. The Resurrection and each time ascending a bit more; each slip of step, every stumble teaching lessons and revealing more insight that thou would ever wish for. Ammon, childe of Lacon, summoned to service as her avatar, set apart from the Choir yet I still read their scrolls and tomes that are thought to be barred, lost or warded - I access them for they are mine.
Amun Jaro, as a servant of the Truth, I wish to thank you, the Choir and your mindless drones, your zealots that you send chasing and buzzing about shedded skin, my departures, trails gone cold and weathered. Desperate for my movements and sniffing out my triumphs, the mindless hounds that they are. Pity. Their righteousness, their duty is delicious to diminish when I fray the tether of faith you leash them with. They see a bounding, long ear rodent to be chased into my thorny thicket, but I know my briar better then they. It is they that are torn and snagged, for remember that this is my land and I serve her well. For that intent, I bend the vine around throat, the sour waters rise to my will and thorns do bite. So, they are held there….to face their quarry. I do enjoy a good chase.
So, on earthen gibbet the ponder their folly, always. I am not overconfidence, see, I know the routes to all ends before I move a single stride. They know this is in the end, as you all will. They see me, my advantage - the mana dries up in their mouths as they rebuke the words I charge at them, unbridled bullets from Davey’s sling, popping the ashes from their eyes like so much wool. I have bathed them baptismally again and again in the virescent flames of the Eldritch truth. They drown in my summoned pyres knowing that the very beliefs that crack the whip have been their undoing, so in those delicious moments that often forsake their masters - just in the eyes welling-up in defeat as hey lose their water.
It is the look of doubt that falters their throw, when they release the signature volleys of gilded halo, there’s a bit of wobble in the execution, I would have you practice more on the wooden dollies perhaps in the Corpus training turfs, all while proselytizing to them at length to perfect their form? Just a suggestion…The result is their beheading, not mine.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Maesters of Lacon’s Spire, my beloved Arcanuum, to those of our land who warm in the light of Truth, as I do - peace to you. To you I am harmless and innert, still your childhood Nagfly! for I am truly a guardian of our mutual interest and a preserver of our people. I cry thee not believe in the songs to your blessed Oduum, the twists of their history are a coil of rope around your throats! Ponder these words for they are the final, peaceful ones. I would have them not wasted as soured waters pooling within deafened ears. I beseech thee to take-up my strong, wretched hand and be pulled to the surface and face them, our true enemy together.
The Oduum, astral reapers who have formed our nation and impregnated our lands and minds with their resources, their knowledge, the continuum - I thank them. With what they have been fearful of and have charged the Choir and its agents to hide away, I have uncovered, sperlunked, hijacked, drank from hidden fonts, taken their offerings, lathe mosses on my eyes so that all may be open. Your withered third eye, rise and see their ambush. To these gods, you must not pray for they are false!
Our joy, our craft our knowledge and generations - all is honeyed-balsam for their revelrous manducation! It was never ours to keep and they will require the heartiest of tolls, they will gouge the land, hands as wicked as vipers at the veins of Gaia and we will be helpless to halt their feasting! Our pride will be stiff as stone and we will move not against them for the quill-tipped pricks put it within our mind’s as well and YOU THANK THEM FOR IT! They need not bother with our interruptions for they have the master control, they hold the whips and tethers. And as they have giveth, and so it goes and we to will be consumed if we wait any longer.
They prefer our fresh minds, I would have you forewarned. Space is cold, so a warm, fresh brained washed with fear - all of that cerebral lightening marinated in a wash of panic is a delicacy to be whipped up by their spindly tongue! I would rather throw myself off from the Spire’s peak, what say you?
Sisters and Brothers of the Arcanuum, rebel with me. Throw back the Choir’s silky yellow hoods and have them look us all in the eye and attempt to deny these accusations. Break waxy seal on forbidden pages as I have, search the skies and remember the olde ways - you hold something rare indeed. You hold unbridled truth.
I address you as an accomplice to the task ahead of us, not avarice for which I am falsely portrayed.
- Amun Jaro