Sgrios Mass: Scars

 

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 whose skin is more scar than tissue. And what did the vitals reveal?

Randomness. A divine, unyielding element of chance that all of Loures would have trouble imagining.

Whether you stand pristine and unblemished, or whether you bear a hundred blessings of Sgrios, your potential remains your own. The Lord of Death does not steal your future strength; He merely records your past follies. A scar is not a limitation; it is a memory made manifest. It is the history of a brush with the void, a testament that you were consumed and yet... you returned.

To heal a scar is an act of vanity, a desperate attempt to rewrite a history that has already been etched in the archives of the grave. Will removing the mark return your lost memories? Will it restore the experiences you forgot when your vitality failed? No. That is the true loss, and no amount of Glioca’s meddling can undo it.

So, let them whisper. Let them run screaming to their healers, begging to have their stories erased. 

We who remain faithful know the truth. We are the sum of our experiences—the glory and the pain alike. Wear your scars with the grim pride they deserve. They are the only things we truly take with us when the final harvest comes.

Stop asking to be healed. Start asking to be worthy of the marks you bear.

Memento mori my friends.