My sister, Kira has grown obsessed with the Vulture of the Wastes, our goddess Garukhan. Kira has taken Oyun and plans to sacrifice her, imagining she can re-forge herself as a Red Sekhema, a warlord destined to unite the Maraketh under her bloody banner.
My sister's betrayal is too great for forgiveness. Like a rabid dog wandering the mountain pass, she must be put down. I ask this of you, for you are familiar with such barbarism and will not feel the pangs of mercy that I would.
On her person, I suspect you will find Oyun's royal mandate. The Sekhema Feather. If Kira truly wishes to take the throne, she would need such an item to be considered more than a simple usurper. Bring it to me for safekeeping.
And please, return our Sekhema Oyun to us, if you can... if she still lives, that is. But don't risk your life for hers. I know her mind. She would not want that.
Why ask me about her? That woman doesn't like me very much and I can't say I'm particularly fond of her either.
She seems to have gotten it into her head somehow that I'm the epitome of all evil - a selfish, blind villain. Nothing could be further from the truth - other than the blind part of course.
I suppose Irasha has good intentions - she truly wishes to see our tribe flourish, however she is too caught up in ancient traditions to see that for us to truly flourish, we must transcend tradition, we must become progressors of the future, not attendants to dry, dusty history.
It seems as though fate shan't be content with just the taking of my eyes. It is pernicious enough to steal my vision from me as well!
I had planned to lead my people into a brighter, better future with the passing of our dear Oyun, but fate uses you to torment me. Still, I must not despair, time is on my side, and in Wraeclast, nobody remains as Sekhema for long.
In the twisting, shifting black smoke of my dreaming, I saw the Beast, lying slain at your feet. I saw the rise of the old gods, their rigid, dusty remains, springing in sudden haste to life. I saw the growing of their power as the corruption began to fade.
I felt utter anguish, the madness of the Beast's last, rabid breath, yet my sight, my power, still remains. It would appear that I was permanently marked by its corruption, even as I was birthed from my mother's womb.
Well now my mother is no longer around to protect me, and the Beast lies rotting in the bowels of that wretched mountain.
By the gods and by the death of gods! You still live! I don't know what you did, but I can sense something has shifted. A weapon has been discovered perhaps, to turn the tide of bloodshed brought on by these sickening gods? Tell me, what did you find?
No, I mustn't enquire, for fear of losing my mind as well as my eyes... Oh, I am struck by a peculiar yearning, exile. It is as if I am a man stood on the precipice of a cliff, with an insatiable longing for the ground.
Please, leave me, before the frenzied voices inside my head devour my body and soul.
The Red Sekhema was the woman who forged what it meant to be 'Maraketh', a people united, strong. Deshret lit fires in the hearts of women and loins of men. When she fell, so did the Maraketh. We've been falling ever since.
Malachai's apprentices. Shavronne of Umbra, Doedre Darktongue and Inquisitor Maligaro. You'll find no more devoted servants in all of Nightmare. In life, they were the three finest forgers of corruption in the Empire.
I'm inclined to agree with Malachai on this one. It would have been such a waste to let them languish in death.
Poor Deshret. Each had their wicked way with her, you see, their turn at trying to subsume Deshret into the collective corruption. Ingenious, they are. True artists. Had Deshret been in possession of an imagination, they might well have succeeded in creating a Ghast of her. Fortunately for us, Deshret never had such a faculty.
If Deshret were able, she'd thank you for dispatching her tormentors, Malachai's wicked little trio. You'll have to content yourself with my thanks, instead. Deshret has been avenged, as is the way of the Maraketh. Tidiness helps one sleep at night, don't you think?
Ah, Witch. I knew you would embrace the Beast. Yet I couldn't know that you would squeeze the very life from it. Honestly didn't think you had that much love in you.
Now one thing remains to be seen. Your regard, your touch, your embrace...can mean only doom for the loved. Please, choose your loves wisely, Witch, lest you break poor Oriath's heart.
Yes, that's right. Oriath. Upon the mountain high, a gateway has opened, one that shall lead you back home. Hurry, for as the death throes of the Beast soften and still, I see the gate beginning to close.
Follow your heart, Witch, no matter how dark it becomes.
For a lover of nature, Ranger, you surely know how to destroy it. Yes, you can argue, that the Beast was beyond nature, unnatural to its blackened core. I won't believe you though. It died after all. Quite a natural thing to do, wouldn't you say?
Something to think about on your way back to Oriath, Ranger.
Yes, Oriath. Upon the mountain high, a gateway has opened, one that shall lead you back home. Hurry, for as the death throes of Beast soften and still, I see the gate beginning to close.
Continue your wild ways, Ranger. They seem to come so... naturally.
I'm sure your Ancestors are very proud of you, Marauder. Yet also rather... confused. For even the great and powerful Beast could not slay you! And if you can't be killed then how will you ever sit at your Ancestors' table?
Quite a conundrum that. Something to mull over on your way back to Oriath.
Yes, Oriath. Upon the mountain high, a gateway has opened, one that shall lead you back to where it all began. Hurry, for as the death throes of Beast soften and still, I see the gate beginning to close.
No-one ever said that the Karui Way was an easy way, Marauder.