Strange Harbor

To Locusta, in the Verring Isle--

There is Strange Harbor, far east of the wet hills. I have seen it sinking slowly into the putrid swamps and just as quickly raised or razed, depending on the time of year and the penchant of its natives.

I wonder about that: Are they natives?

Still broken over the ruins they once called home, whether by famine, war, or disease, they make a new hearth in Strange Harbor, placing their emaciated hearts there all the same.

I find that type of hope sickening. Hope is the tool the gilded use to inspire Lumarcians into servitude. The same gilded who cast war upon Lumen Marcia’s exposed bosom and reap the ruin of her people from palaces of stone and gold.

Strange Harbor is no different. A testament to eternal decimation at the hands of those who never knew its existence.

Sunless Skills are meant for this; the Keep hungers for vacuums of power. Not anarchy, but the refutation of power disparity. The destruction of hope. A poison, even to those who wield it.

It is why I am here, raised in this dark place, and long have I peered through Anarunhari’s great glass that mounts the Keep. I watch kings, queens, and clergymen tinker about in dead lands for ancient tools to grow their power. I watch them wake nightmares and long-slumbered demons, all the while preaching ethics and sanctimony against the tainted knowledge and devices of the old world.

The town of Byrggn is rife with such hypocrisy. I have seen the shadow of its destruction built over the unholy Shepherds of Shevat. The Count has fought their deathless Machen for centuries, but I have seen his efforts weaken of late. Perhaps he too senses it. That it too will become another Strange Harbor.

What if all those who pursued this path of greed devoured themselves? What then would become of we who rule the Sunless Skills?

So few of us are needed to enforce the changing of godheads and charge political intrigue. Perhaps this is why the Count now bides his time, hidden amongst Byrggn’s people, listening to the voice that echoes and repeats in waiting.

Perhaps this is why great Anarunhari turns his glass to the sky and spies upon the dead things whose carcasses litter our heavens.

Such horrors await. In time all of Lumen Marcia may become a Strange Harbor.

Keep free of the crows’ long whispers, if you can; they are senseless creatures.

Regards,

Foucault

The crows certainly whisper about the Women of Shadow. Read more about them here.

Or find out what happens when a young girl meets the night in Spring.