Sgrios Shambler

  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...