Sgrios Shambler

  Welcome, my fellow seekers of the End. Gather close, for today we quiet the incessant screaming.  You have heard the whispers... nay, the shouting, that echoes through the temples and the crypts. They say that to bear the Mark of Sgrios is to be stunted, to have your vitality ruined. They look at the jagged lines carved into your soul by Nyarlathotep’s touch and they claim your growth is "inhibited." They fear that each scar is a weight that drags your potential into the Cthonic Ruins before its time. How they cling to their lies! How they worship their little scrolls of numbers as if the Gods themselves were bound by a simple quill and ink! Listen well: Growth is not a clockwork machine. Our Lord Sgrios is a god of rot, yes, but also of the profound, beautiful chaos that lies within all living things.  We have tested the spark. We have watched the fresh Aislings (those still shielded by Shambler’s curious mercy) and we have watched the most disfigured among us, those w...

  Welcome, seekers of the inevitable. Gather close, and let the damp chill of these stones seep into your bones. We speak often of the rot of the flesh, of the glorious decay that reclaims our Aislings' bodies when our sparks finally flicker and die. But tonight, we do not look inward. Tonight, we look outward.  Look around you. Look at the stones of this very temple. Look at the towering spires of Loures, the bustling markets of Pravat, the city halls where rangers and politicians argue over borders and laws.  What do you see? Gramail's followers see order. They see laws made manifest in mortar and stone. Cail's children see an affront to their precious, stagnant green. But we? We who bear the Scars of Sgrios? We see something far more beautiful. We see ruins in waiting. There is a profound arrogance in the mundane mind. They stack stone upon stone and declare, "This will last forever." They forge crowns of gold and draw lines on maps, believing they can cage tim...

I wrote this after a long slumber. It reminded me of the first time I truly woke up. No, it was not when Deoch gave me my spark. That was AN awakening. I'm speaking of the first time an awakening was MINE. The first time I even met Sgrios. I met Sgrios on the day I finally stopped pretending. As I lay on the ground screaming and crying with the pain of shattering everything I thought I knew about myself. The pain and joy of giving birth to myself. Of being saved from oblivion. **takes a deep shaky breath, emotional** The pain and ecstasy of being unraveled **smiles at everyone** As I lay on the ground, He gathered my fears like so much broken and scattered glass, Sgrios asked me, "Why do you carry what clearly needs release. These sharp, insidious barbs of pain made from ruined pieces of your spark? Aren't you tired?" And I was. I was so tired of making myself small. Of breaking myself into pieces easily swallowed by people that I should have let choke on me. Tired of...

  The other Aislings; they look at us and see shadows. They see the black robes, the scent of sacred rot, the silent prayers to the Lord of the End, and they think we too must have already crossed the threshold. They think that to worship Sgrios is to surrender to the grave. To be weak. Sickly. Meek. How little they understand! Look at your hands! Do they not bleed when cut? Does your heart not thunder in your chest when you face the Creants in the dark? We worship the God of Death, yes! We are the shepherds of the inevitable, the keepers of the ticking clock. But do not mistake our devotion for having the fortitude of a creature found in House Macabre. We do not seek the grave; we master it! We are Aislings! We are the spark that Deoch ignited and Sgrios shall one day reclaim. But that "one day" does not have to be today! To know death is to truly know life. The Cail acolytes pray for growth, but they fear the harvest. The Gramailians pray for order, so long as that order la...

Welcome, seekers of the shadow, to our musty house of rot. I see many of you shivering tonight - perhaps from the dampness of the crypts, or perhaps because you feel the early tickle of Sgrios’ fingers upon your throat. It is a heavy air we breathe tonight, is it not? The sweet, cloying scent of things beginning to come apart. Tonight, we speak of Illness. To the mundanes of Loures, illness is a tragedy. They run to the temples of Cail, begging for herbs and "purity." They hide behind the stone walls of their capital, praying to Gramail for "order" and "quarantine," as if a king’s decree could stop the infectious messengers of our Lord.  But we know better. Have you heard the whispers from the second floor of Loures Castle? Of the child, Jacqueline? They say she is being sapped of life, a hollow shell wasting away. But do you know the source of her suffering? It is not the natural touch of our Lord. It is... the Pact of Anaman Her father, the Councilor Cyr...

I see many familiar faces tonight, as well as many new sparks flickering in this dim light. It's wonderful to see you all here let this be the first of many thanks for joining. Tonight, I want to speak on something -not- particularly Sgrian. However, there can be no denying that it is as much a part of our daily life as it is any others. "Inspiration." When you hear that word - what comes to mind? Lydien: *raises hand* Lydien: Are we raising hands? Or just speak, we're all equals here. Lydien: Well, I actually have a lot of opinions about inspiration, but I think the main one is that it's actually..stealing. Sort of.. like I get my inspiration from other people, other things, the way the sky looks, the way something sounds or feels and then, yeah, make it my own, reenvision it. Taking a part of someone or something else and making it a part of yourself? Absolutely. Joraa: I think of artistic endeavors A Cailite artist painting a blooming flower is certainly inspir...