Tarnished...

Dost thou deem it so? That life itself is but a mournful tale? We are born into this world, frail, simple, and so easily broken. Through the years, we strive and strain, yet doth it not ever seem lacking? The stream of life is ceaseless, ever pressing onward to wear us down. Hope, like a far-flung ring of stars, is something we grasp but for a fleeting moment ere it doth slip away into the endless void. And so it ever shall be—those distant streaks of light, faint and fleeting, hid in the farthest reaches of creation.

Yet even so...

Doth mankind not stand firm? Are they not their own bulwark 'gainst the whims of fate?

Tarnished, though the cruel weight of life doth bear heavy, naught endures forever—not even sorrow. All things fade, and all things flourish. Those brief moments of hope shall come, and though they pass swift as the wind, they shall suffice to guide thy path upon the road thou walkest. This is the tale of life—the eternal turning of the wheel of existence.

Thus, I beseech thee, reach not for the Flame of Frenzy. How can beauty bloom afresh when all that remaineth is ash? The Flame—thou think'st thou know'st its truth, but its whispers are falsehoods. To embrace the Flame with thy flesh and bone, to wield it, leaveth naught but endless woe. No gods endure, nor demons. Naught remaineth of life or death. Blindness shall overtake the Lands Between, and beauty shall be warped into a false, withered light. Accursed is the Flame.

Tarnished, to seek the Flame, to touch it, to unleash it—thou may'st think thyself a savior. Aye, it may free many from their chains. Yet I ask thee this: when one doth plead for freedom from suffering, wilt thou grant them the strength to face it, or wilt thou strip away their fear... leaving naught but a hollow, soulless shell?

Forever ignorant of pain, and yet forever bound by it.

Such cruelty.