View source for Sacrifice of the Amethyst Preservers

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<span style="font-style:italic;">21 [[Calendar System|Snowveil]], 0:[[Calendar System|Conquest]]</span><br><br>
'''To the Honored Keeper of the [[Amethyst Peak]],'''

The Fifth Purge rages around us, threatening to unmake all of creation. Our numbers dwindle and our strength wanes.

The very fabric of reality frays at its edges. [[Umore]]'s influence seeps through cracks in the [[Essence Weave]], tainting all it touches. The hordes of darkness grow ever stronger, fueled by despair and fed by hopelessness.

We stand as the last bulwark against this tide of annihilation. Our blades glow with righteous purpose, our armor bears the scars of a five [[Purges|purges]] now.
The ceaseless whispers of our amethyst weapons, urging us forward even as our bodies scream for rest. The searing pain of absorbing corrupt [[Magic|magic]], purifying it through our very beings. The faces of countless fallen comrades, their eyes accusing us of surviving where they did not.

I still hear the screams of Eetha, consumed by essence energy as she held shut a rift long enough for us to evacuate a city. I feel the phantom grip of Ibba’s hand as the earth swallowed him, his death buying us precious moments in the Battle of Shattered Peaks.
We thought we had known war before, but nothing could have prepared us for the horrors unleashed there. The war demons, manifestations of pure conflict, tore through our lines with terrifying ease. Our strongest warriors, veterans of a hundred battles, were reduced to children before their onslaught. And the illusory demons... Keeper, how does one fight an enemy that isn't there? That can make you see your deepest fears, your most cherished loved ones turned against you?

We lost hope. We lost the belief that we could win this war through strength of arms alone. The peaks now stand as broken teeth against the sky, a grim reminder of our inadequacy.
And it was not the only place to fall. [[Kazenrock]], the impenetrable fortress of the [[Dwarf|dwarves]], has been breached. Its halls now echo with the screams of the dying and the laughter of goblins.

[[Rivelgin]], the shining city of [[Elori]], fares no better. The tree-cities burn, ancient knowledge turned to ash in moments. The rivers run black with tainted [[Magic|magic]], and the very air shimmers with malevolent energy. The [[Elf|elves]], for all their wisdom and magical might, could not stand against the tide of darkness.

It was in this darkest hour that the [[Atpian|atpians]] emerged with their discovery. Through means beyond our understanding, they had uncovered the location and source of Umore's influence - a split in the very fabric of the [[Essence Weave]]. A tear between worlds, through which the god of the end exerts his will.

Their revelation brought a glimmer of hope, quickly tempered by grim reality. The split cannot be mended by conventional means. No spell, no ritual we know of, can repair such damage to the fundamental structure of our reality.

And so we come to our desperate plan. I do not write seeking permission, Keeper. Our path is set. I write so that you may know the truth, so that you may record our final act. To end this Purge, to save what remains of our world, we must sacrifice ourselves. We will pour our very essence into the Weave, using our life force, our souls, to knit together the broken strands of reality.

The cost will be beyond measure, Keeper. We will cease to exist as we know it. Our consciousness, our very being, will be scattered across the Weave. Will we retain any sense of self? Will we experience the torment of being torn apart for eternity? These questions haunt me, yet I know we have no choice.

Even if we succeed, what kind of world will we leave behind? One ravaged by war, its populations decimated, its lands scarred beyond recognition. Will there be enough left to rebuild? Have we fought so hard merely to prolong the inevitable?

In my darkest moments, I cling to a fragile hope. I think of the resilience I've witnessed - [[Human|humans]] rebuilding homes from the ashes, [[Dwarf|dwarves]] forging weapons in the embers of their ruined forges, [[Elf|elves]] singing songs of defiance as their forests burn.

We go now to our destiny, be it oblivion or transcendence. Our path is set, our resolve unshakeable despite the terror that grips our hearts. We are the preservers of hope, of life itself.

For all that is and all that may yet be.

'''Flana Vacte, Fifth of the [[Amethyst Preservers]]'''

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[[Category: Historical Letters]]
[[Category: Age of Conquest]]