Sgrios Shambler

 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 their trai

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