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I dedicated myself to the understanding of the Light that leaks from a fiercer place.
Despair, the wolf that devours thought, devoured me.
My body died. Perhaps my spirit entered the Mansus.
The Wood grows around the walls of the Mansus. As any student of Histories knows, the Mansus has no walls.
Speech may not pass the White Door, but I may.
I honoured my agreement, but I did not have a friend.
I dedicated myself to the fire that changes and remakes.
I dedicated myself to the mysteries of birth, blood and appetite.
I dedicated myself to the Hours which open doors.
I dedicated myself to the study of the five Histories, and their thousand demi-real branches.
I have answered the riddle of the Stag Door, and am counted among the Know.
I worked. I slaved. I lived a sort of life.
I will be honoured by my peers. And then, one day, I'll die.
My trial was contentious. But thanks to the Inspector, here I am.
I conjured a creature from beyond the skin of the world.
I no longer have any idea what is real, and what is not.
I have made the necessary sacrifice to enter the Mansus through the Spider Door.
It has pleased the Peacock Door to yield to my entry.
I dedicated myself to chaos, and the unexpected Hours.
I dedicated myself to the silence that comes and the cold that ends.
I dedicated myself to the drumbeat which can never end.
I cast a believer onto the Lantern's path.
I walked behind the Watchman. I will not grow old.
I dedicated myself to the Hours of struggle and conquest.
I pledged a believer to the Feast of the Grail.
I shaped a mighty believer from the fires of the Forge.
I gorged on the fruits of the sticky Grail. I will not grow old.
I wrestled the Forge to victory. I will not grow old.
I led a believer to the Wood of the Moth.
I forged a believer into a true instrument of Knock.
I am a successful trophy.
I drew a believer to the endless Dance of the Heart.
I sharpened a believer to their deadliest Edge.
I have become something winged, dark and undying; something that no longer exists.
I have joined the storm-chorus of the Thunderskin. Never shall I cease.
I carry the colours of lost Hours with me like a coal of rosy fire.
In the Fifth History alone, I will rise like a wave and hood myself to mark what I have become.
I was consumed, but another I rose higher
I was lost to another I's glory
I was devoured, but another I rose higher
She ensures I have sweet dreams.
I am drunk with her.
We seem a suited pair.
We find, we think, a way.
Our house is home to fluttering things.
He thanks me afterwards.
Now we are scholars of the heart.
Our heartbeats quicken together.
It is hard to tell, with him, whether to laugh or cry.
We wrestled the Forge to victory. We will not grow old.
I am well repaid.
She wants very much to be found.
I may give him his reward.
Our home is littered with his notes.
I would not say it ended badly.
Life is not easy with her.
Our flesh may tire. We may grow old. But I will not regret.
We gorged on the fruits of the sticky Grail. We will not grow old.
We walked behind the Watchman. We will not grow old.
That is enough.
We are happy, I think.
One by one we douse the flames.
He is the melody of love, and I hear him now.
We have joined the storm-chorus of the Thunderskin. Never shall we cease.
We dream the same pink dreams.
We have become something winged, dark and undying; something that no longer exists.