The passing butterfly, bedecked in bright gold.
Her flitting wings, weak and insubstantial things.
Thy world, a new brand of illusions, I am told.

She is resplendent, attractive.
She is hollow, empty.
She is a forgery, a captive.

Thy jubilation stems from unfounded reveration
oft the ignorance the weak are quick to parlance.
The comfortable half-truths by which you are entranced.

Shallamese.

Remove the veil from thy eyes,
gaze at the world beyond.
Open thy mind and realise,
the disguise thy have donned.


Jaybles K. Xanatov
Blade Aspirant,
Sentry of Mhaldor

Penned by my hand on the 23rd of Ero, in the year 524 AF.