The nightmares are but whispers now, yet like prophets, cowering within crevice and crack, they speak of old gods returned, and the reprisal of an exile to our beleaguered land.
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.
The shadows are lifting at last! Hand in hand, you and I, we have guided my people towards a brighter future. I suppose you wonder why I do not mourn? For my sister. For Oyun.
Why should I? There is no sense in shedding a tear for those who stand in the way of progress. They have passed from this coil, and that is the best thing either could have done for their people.
With our poor sekhema removed from her saddle, the way is clear. In lieu of a worthy leader, I shall step up, and with the backing of my followers, claim the throne of Highgate.
Irasha may spit and curse, yet her duty shall overcome her distaste. She will bow to the one who bears the feather as high custom dictates.
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.
Yes, I know of that dark god perched atop your shoulder. His image comes forth in my mind's eye, and I hear the sound of his breath crackle against the coldness of our mountain air.
He has a different energy to the other gods revealed in my dreams. Less hostile, more empathetic to the plight which humanity suffers... should his brethren be left to roam free.
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.
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.