Sapience,

Five hundred years ago, Mhaldor rose from the earth. We were born of sacrifice and belief, a faith unfaltering when the cold whistled through the empty spaces. We bled on the black mountain. Steeped in the blood of His faithful, the Baelgrim yawned above the stalagmite where mortal after mortal pierced their hearts and gave their lives to Him. The Lord of Evil was freed, and His Fortress towered over the Red Isle to cast all within its shadow. This place He made for His followers to prove their worth in the gauntlet of mortality, to shape Creation, and strive towards a pinnacle of perfection we have yet to make manifest.

The legends of old grasped at this peak and dragged their bloody and broken bodies across its crags.

We follow in their footsteps. As the year of centennial celebrations draws to a close, you, Sapience, are invited to the very last ceremony, set to commence one to two days before Serenade of Lupar, 802 years after the fall of Seleucar.

You are invited to Seven Dances, a performance of the ritual form, history, and movement.

The Apocrypha compels us to praise Him in the firmament of His power. Praise Him with timbrel and dance, song and prayer. In service of this, I bring to you a horde of slaves from the Northern Vashnars, who have, over many months, honed their bodies and minds. We will attempt to dance the Seven, elevating mortal flesh to a vessel for the Lord's Catechism. To move through Iniquity, Hardship, Brutality, Subjugation, Strength, Cruelty, and Dominion, emerging as more perfect servants.

Those of you afraid of bewitchment by my voice will be thrilled to know I won't speak a word. All are welcome to lay down your arms and observe. Persist, and dance with death.

In veneration,

Stheno Aristata
Purifier of His Insidium

Penned by my hand on the 14th of Scarlatan, in the year 802 AF.