At this juncture, I am compelled to confess that my understanding of the world bygone has crumbled into oblivion. The scholars of Ealdorwyrm often uphold the creed of 'seeking truth'. We assail the buried history, we scorn the impenetrable politics, heralding these pursuits as the steadfastness and glory of an Ealdorwyrm scholar, yet, therein, we became ensnared in false satisfaction and self-identification.
Not until I beheld the verity of this realm with mine own eyes did I realize that I was but a beast of burden blinded to the truth, and our discourses were as foolish and futile as debating whether to dine on acorns or grain come noontide.
I scribe my desolate discoveries hereunto. To thee, who reads these pages in times to come, thy identity remains beyond my ken, yet with a heart heavy with foreboding for the fate that might mirror mine own, I am bound to extend to thee my earnest admonitions: Ignorance, perchance, is a blissful comfort. We dwell on an isle shrouded in shadow, and ere thou resolve to knock on the door of the abyssal dark, pray, inquire within thine heart, art thou prepared to embrace the boundless obsidian that awaits?
Perhaps from the moment I turned the pages of the tome, the supreme power of Azathoth had me firmly ensnared. Unlike the angels and demons of our understanding, Azathoth hails from a higher order of beings from beyond the veil of this world, born amidst the boundless chaos, ever coveting the realm we inhabit.
Eons past, the minions of Azathoth stretched forth their claws towards our world. It was a grand war, a confluence unseen, where mankind, angels, and demons stood united on common ground, battling to stave off the encroaching chaos. Though the cost was grievous, we indeed secured a moment's respite.
Yet, this fleeting moment is but a fleeting twinkling to Azathoth, while to mankind it stretches long enough to forget fear. The crux lies herein: none know when this transient serenity shall cease, perchance even as I inscribe these words, our world teeters on the brink of oblivion.
And the existence of Azathoth unveils yet another brutal truth — the annals we've painstakingly chronicled over millennia might merely be founded upon the whimsical illusion of divinity. The souls of mankind are melded from the void and chaos, a power embraced since the dawn of creation, and the very essence coveted by Azathoth. In truth, our realm has been graced by two eminent shepherds since the legendary era of mankind's infancy. One kin we revere as exalted, omniscient deities, while the other, we scorn as malevolent fiends, the beasts of deluge.
We've named them as "Angels," and "Demons."
Perchance the angels we hold in reverence, and the demons, bear no distinction in essence. It's not a denigration of the angels, but merely shedding the divine luminescence with a more veritable, yet despairing gaze.
The power of chaos lies dormant within the souls of mankind; mere coercion or slaughter can't unveil it. The shepherds, in unison, adopted a more cunning, efficacious method. Thus were borne the tales of our youth — angels redeeming the faithful, demons tempting souls into betrayal.
Both ways, at their core, are but means for angels and demons to harvest the souls of men. The horror unfolds as we cast this method across the expanse of human history, casting a shadow of void upon all our legends, and foundations, leaving us to question the authenticity of our past, or if it's but a game directed by angels and demons to reap souls.
The so-called war between good and evil is naught but naive human conjecture; the essence of this war is a struggle for shepherdly dominion between angels and demons. Be it the faith rallied by angels, or the decadence lured by demons, both are but means to harness the chaotic force within human souls.
They've ruled our past, present, and will the future, while our self-proclaimed civilization and history never truly existed.
The world now seemingly bereft of angelic and demonic shadows, mankind has forgotten the once feared, the once revered. Yet, if our shepherds once again require our strength, what profound upheavals shall befall our realm?
I leave the answer to posterity, for I wish not to fathom, nor dare to fathom.
Final scribe of Giles Bird