The Ascent Of Cinder's Cradle

The council may be divided, but it matters not. We must ascend. There is no other choice.

It seems our youngest member plans to leave the council.

To split from both the council and the Mother Flame's embrace at one's own behest is, of course, an ignominy — and even worse: entirely witless.

As soon as Ezramin departs, we will count the votes anew — and the outcome will be clear as day. Then, we will route our energy to the Mother Flame to fuel our ascent... but whether or not it will be enough, none can say.

We suffer from stagnation.

A new flavor, I admit — though a bittersweet one at best.

We don't possess enough energy to fuel our ascent.

Therefore, we remain in the interim; suspended above the grime and dirt — reaching for the fruit of the stars, hands bound.

We are ripped apart. And as such, we will remain.

Corporally, spiritually...

When we are only half, then we are not enough.

Maybe we will never be.

We've no more fuel to burn, and the Shroud has reached our abode.

We could not run. Could not hide. We were a harvest, ripe for picking.

For the first time in centuries, an Ancient has died by the blade — severed from the Mother Flame's light... trying desperately to stall the worms, the tendrils, the rot.

A fruitless venture, of course.

We should not die as shields. We should die as fuel... to buy time. To flee. To save what matters most.

We will be the energy — until our bodies can be reshaped, until our souls are reborn... if ever.

There is no other way.