A tablet bobs energetically within a faint current of recursive telekinetic spell work:


"I had thought to make some grand, boldly heralded rallying call to all disparate members of our Guild of..what are we the Guild of again? If you were to ask a Heritage Keeper for the answer you'd experience the standard House archival service: first you'd be be presented with a thousand page Graduate Archivists Thesis of Grand Quills on the subject (which would leave you in mortal battle with a yourself-in-shadow-simulacra birthed from Katambian Oribital Pathogenics - otherwise known to sane members of the Guild as a table of contents). Didn't find your answer there? I doubt it would be within the hand delivered bill couriered by Heritage House's Y'shai-of-the-Gravedreams creditor Armiger from Hazardous Temporal Accounting. Crisop, perfect pressed vellum detailing all such actual-in-potential charges totaled during investment losses accrued in the death of their Weeping Historians to Kaelstraum's Teleo-faultline through standard House Service Querying for Non-House Members.

That's if, if, your disarmingly simple question went beyond their spry Junior Custodians who gleefully delve into the Categorized-by-Paradox Xibarian manifold. There they rouse their native conceptual horrors (concepts of Mathematically Sublime Paper Cuts) who lie in unborn-dream state behind the profane Thirty Nine Heavenly Shrieking Choir-Wards. We could spend days recounting the nightmares their Dead-by-Light psalms deliver to all who hear them; alien hymns wailing the lost names of those Servant Spirits Born-in-Tyrant's Wings: none understand or recall such stories. And all of this found at their help desk where their very helpful clerk in their ink-stained Keeper'
s robes sits taking all queries without even a waver in their gleam to be of service. Better psychic-surgery-enhanced service empathy than soul vomiting horror when musing Meraud's Blot where all of history, according to their Weeping Historians, lies unknown and unlived. Even clerks go mad eventually beneath lunar light.

Right. We're a guild who gropes blindly within a miasma of true darkness to sift a world's worth of magical history and study those scattered fragments of divine dreams which we pry from fossilized memories in starlight. We've chosen to pry open the weeping rupture of prophecy like so much a surgeon who has eviscerated his patient so he might take stock of the unfortunate's lunch so the might know the shape of its passing. Too bad there's all that blood, squirming and shrieking given in the name of so much offal.

So what are we the Guild of, again? We don't need a prophecy read in a G'nar Peths scarred sockets. We don't require the sacrifice of an overworked scribe in the Shambling Stacks. We can even go without reading the lay of bones from a shattered Crystal Hand cast at the feet of misfortune's unheeded signs. The ratification of the Lunar Accord brought forth all those practitioners who read the motions of light in the womb of darkness writ across our worldly ceiling and from the light came a unity of vision. Unity is the crown which moves worlds and that crown is long lost in some Tezirite's Laughing Moon Casket.

The Accord is the architecture in which our minds come together so we might touch Meraud's providence. Here we peer into a facet of the divine's own font whose shadow plays show us despair and war that the Guild does nothing to help prevent. We are fallow in these shallow pools of cosmological self-importance guarded by our armored Undying Watch Guardians. We brought wrath and pain to the planes whose futures we plundered to sate our own starving ignorance but ignored the counting of the dead that gave us understanding. And still the corpses continue to stack.

A native of that plane has been forced into making a choice. Guilded Traders have been granted the blessing of a Confound and knowledge of lunar magic. We wage a utterly self-harming 'war' against one of his Kindred without even attempting to understand the cause of his madness or what we might do to bring this Spirit peace. The Arbiter in the Darkness is taking steps in the absence of our inaction. It's obvious that we are responsible for this chaos. The Shrew is Ascendant; madness takes hold of all things.

The Lunar Accord is an artifact of the past. With no council willing to act in alignment to the spirit of how the Accords came to be, I have no choice but to establish a general member challenge to the document's presumed authority and validity due to its lacking valid, established modern practitioners signatures. Further, I challenge the completeness of the supposed Guild Council to be capable of providing leadership to provincial governments, Guild members and provincial civilians as is expected in accordance to provincial governmental acknowledgments approving Guild accreditation. The Guild loses this important social acceptance every day that we do not accept our new found brethren and their reputable Patron in modernizing these founding Lunarian accords.

Magic we thought lost has returned and it is in the craftsman who are responsible for so much provincial road-building and mapping in their pursuit of an economic who have boldly made it so. We must come together as fellow practitioners where we might build bridges instead of high towers.

Arbiter in Darkness; You are invited/summoned/manifested to sit at the table. There can be no accords if the principle beings are not signatories. Actions become language. Wounds must be mended. Futures should be built before they are seen. Truth is carved in our bones like history is in broken potsherds and corpses.

If we are failed by the greed for power by these leaders, then I suggest any Child of Grazhir wrestle a pearl from Elanthia's sleeping serpent's maw: it's safer than inter-Guild politics.


Signed,

*a hypnotic, serpentine signature of familiar, yet nauseatingly alien, recursive hieroglyphs*

((OOC: I'm definitely not trying to establish any canon/lore by making up a lot of that silly Moon Mageism. The writer of this has no idea how Heritage House operates beyond a rumor and a moonbeam with the occasional lamentation from Graduate Archivists for their planar-damaging thesis rejections.))