Sgrios Shambler

I never suspected I'd touch pen to parchment in this hallowed book again. It seemed that my era had come to an end, and I longed for the embrace of our Lord, to leave these lands and stand by his side. So long has my heart been closed to the whispers of Temuair that I feel almost a stranger in a strange land: once more everything seems new and unfamiliar. Perhaps chiefly among those things I struggle to recognize is my own being. Since I entered my slumber over forty-five Deochs have passed, and in that time an entire generation has been supplanted by new names, new faces and new accomplishments - nearly all of them strangers to me, which surely means that my name and my face are at most relics from some distant past, and my congregation has scattered like spores to the wind. During the length of my mediation I have been contacted a number of times - either by those concerned with the lack of leadership in the temple, or forgotten souls passing through their old haunts and seeking...

 Sermon written and delivered by temple acolyte Foucault  I spent some time at the North Island Monastery with the monks there and I wish to re-tell a story that I heard. There was once a monk who lived on the island who was plagued with nightmares, but could not find any reason for them at all. His troubles were so great that they drove him to desperation, and finally he sold all his possessions and set off to seek the wisdom of a famous court of mages. So great was their power that they had retracted from the world into abstractions of their own creations. The monk traveled to this tower, and he told these mages his troubles, but they could find no answer for him, the oldest among them however, spoke up. He told the monk that in the desert to the south there was a temple where the monk might find answers. So again the monk set out, but when he arrived at the temple he was again turned away. The priestess explained, the oracles joined the temple as children, and in t...

My desk, the humble old thing, is expected to house a myriad of thoughts and activities. My aisling spark rarely lets me focus on a single project through completion and, as a result, I have the unrealistic expectation that my desk can house the same infinity of thought that I hold in my mind. Sadly this is not the case and I must, from time to time, purge my space of those ideas that are simply occupying valuable real estate. This time of reflection is a culling of sorts as I unfurl dusty scrolls with half-written masses, frantic scribblings of some thought that seemed to carry weight at the height of some sleepless night or the half dozen ideas for manuscripts I plan to submit to the college. As such, our minds are graveyards of similar dead thoughts. Bygone memories of better days that have come to pass, hopes that have failed to coalesce before their potentiality expired, irredeemable philosophical ponderings that inevitably lead nowhere. In the seemingly infinite plain of our m...

The aisling mind is divinely inspired; a boundless landscape of wonder and possibility. When Deoch lowered his godly finger from the ether-realms and pressed the spark into our mortal bodies, He unlocked an infinity of thought and progress. This is, however, always a blessing and a curse - with advanced capacity for knowledge comes a new sphere of fear and anxiety. Having a greater grasp on the limitations of life itself gives way to a fear of the inevitable death; a fear unique among mortals. There are more complex fears that the Aisling philosophers of Mileth are always keen to prattle on about; vague existential threats that are always looming on the peripheral of reality, somehow never seeming to take action against our realm. Of all these things that may or may not exist, the one invisible force that seems to direct the realms of man is time. This measure by which we gauge the lengths of days, the passing of a year and the age of everything from stone to stonemason. This unrel...

There was once a valiant warrior; the pride of his village. By the strength of his arm and the steel of his courage the town was saved from many a horrid fate. Each time he was able to stave off disaster, his ego would swell. The elders brought him gifts of gold, the priests brought him powerful amulets and rings, the maidens gave of their bodies what a man values more than gold and power. The village leaned heavily on this boy, and, while he was happy to lend his particular talents to the preservation of his village, each wave of terror corrupted his kind heart bit by bit. Each gold coin he earned in the employ of the elders set a monetary expectation; he began visiting the church after his exploits and asking for his reward. When the young women soured on his demeanor, he began to take by force what they would not give. Appreciation turned to ask; ask turned to demand and demand gave way to force. Within years the village savior had become the evil he had sworn to protect agains...

It is comforting for us to know that the gods watch over us, that they walk among us, that we are cared for by something larger than ourselves. Here, in this forsaken place, we are shrouded in the eternal protection of Lord Sgrios; he who knows death as a subordinate. When I see a felled tree pitted by worms, when I see the dead of yesterday’s hunt nurture the land with their festering bodies, when those I love fail to take another breath I know he lives, and when I am spared from such a grisly fate, my faith in Him is rewarded. His presence is strong and pervasive in our world, and rarely am I ever far from a reminder of His great gifts. But faith is a currency spent in more institutions than this holy shrine, and it is one that accumulates at a glacial pace and diminishes as water in the desert. What do we do, then, when our faith is lost? We, followers of Sgrios, are blessed to dedicate ourselves to such a powerful god, yet there were others -- gods who predate those of our curr...