When I look to the Sun I see a stab wound; a sickly blot amid the storm of dust that is our sky, ringed by the bruised light seeping through. Ever the vagabond, I've heard countless doctrines and theories, but my own eyes have seen the truth; that the Sun is glorious, and marks the puncture point of our death blow from where trickles of blood long dripped.

One could clearly see this when raising a lantern from a high place; the skin of Tarthas stabbed through with spears and arrows disguised as broken cities, their monuments and spires jutting outward as if thrown. Whatever we'd done to anger the Fates, I knew it must have been severe. Why else would they have built Tarthas with all its torments? As a child I knew this, even before my oldest memories emerged, and the only matter I ever debated was whether the Fall was a penance or an assault. The allure of either path could only be rivaled by my curiosity if other possibilities might exist, and so I, guessing by a child's logic, was branded a wraith, soulless and unbelieving, and delivered to one of the many nondescript labor pools where the unaffiliated were deposited. As my aversion to choosing between covenants was the result of cerebral acumen rather than simple apathy, it was determined that I should be either shocked into submission or warped into conversion, and so, by the judgement of those who harbored me then, I was at last returned to the Dolomites, where I spent my boyhood carving flesh off living bones for them to examine at their secret banquets.

That they so casually revealed to me the means by which they studied our bodies haunts me still. It took all the poise I could muster to keep my trembling hands from spilling the jug of lobelia wine I carried all over the floor. I'd been in the examination chamber numerous times, and so I thought nothing of it when the door opened and I was ushered in. It did not occur to me that this was the first time I was allowed entry while their work was in progress, and during my previous entrances I'd had no cause to consider the height of the procedure table, or the placing of chairs around it, or the similarities between their surgical tools and tableware. But I think what shook me most was the ritual regurgitation that took place at the end of the meal. They did not appear to chew, but tilted their heads back and held the flesh against the roofs of their mouths before swallowing. It was then on me to lift the urn they spewed in onto a cart and wheel it to the purging chamber. There I poured its contents through the floor grate and prepped the furnace, at first sickened by the stench that wormed its way through those iron doors while the purging fires roared.

I never spoke of what I saw to anyone, not even Kendra, and so the Dolomites continued testing me with greater degrees of trust. Each new tier of service brought with it new heights of revulsion, followed by a jading so thorough that even the pouring out of their swill became routine. I can't be sure why they involved me in the dregs of their activities, as while cruel, their degeneration galvanized me for the wake my final choice would leave. And so I'm grateful, for Tarthas now shakes to the rumblings of Pazuzu, and I know I was right to keep forging ahead despite the knell I was marching toward. Whether the Dolomites foresaw the catastrophe salvation would bring, or were kept ignorant by the powers that lured us all on, I will never know. But knowledge is nothing next to victory, and so the doors of the purging chamber have become a symbol to me of my conviction, and the worrying over unanswered questions as distasteful as the stench that crept from its flames.