Sgrios Mass: The Lifeless Lands

 

I spent nearly five cycles sequestered in the quiet darkness of my chambers. During that time I was lost to the world, trapped in the labyrinth of the mind as I explored the ethereal realm in my meditations. To all, even perhaps to myself, I seemed to have entered a unique stage of death. My bodily functions ceased. I no longer hungered, I no longer ached. My heart stopped circulating blood and, though the things around me continued to decay, my body remained. For Aislings, this is quite common, especially for those who have walked this land for a considerable time, slipping into these extended states of unbeing are expected, and at times even encouraged.

When I awoke and realized exactly how many deochs I had lost to this slumber, I was shocked and dismayed, for I knew that once I consulted the Aisling census, the names of those I loved and cherished would more than likely be absent from the waking sparks of today’s Temuair. The few faces I recognized were my anchor to the past I belonged to, but it was the gentle souls that have emerged in my solitude that tempted me back to the land of the living.

Still, when I look around, I tend to wonder if I’ve truly returned to Temuair, or if I’m seeing the darkness of my coma from the outside. Aislings stand like unmoving statues, scattered carelessly around the Pravat Pass or in the Port of Rucesion, unresponsive and lifeless. Worse yet are the Aislings that stampede through Mileth, seemingly acting on impulse rather than through any cognitive will - they, perhaps, seem more lifeless than those that stand like unblinking sentinels.

I must ask myself - is this the age of Sgrios? The Aisling spark burned down to nothing but a smoldering coal sheathed in ash, and the profound act of living reduced to naught more than a means to deliver death and chaos in the wilderness? Perhaps in my absence He claimed the Aisling population and I’ve awoken to a necromancer’s paradise: husks of the living acting out some forsaken task against the will of their lost soul.

In times like these where the spark is dim, darkness reigns and Cail turns his hopeful gaze at the arid soil and wonders how his abundance has brought nothing but a feast for decay; how the bright sparks of decades past have brought us the zombies of this cursed deoch. Still, for those who are awake; those who walk with their own volition and hear the salutations when they’re whispered, I intend to dedicate what time I have to nurturing this blessed shrine, to providing a shelter for those yet to find themselves lost in the unending dusk. Bring your blessed sparks here and let them illuminate the age of decay.