Void. Bereft. There is a chasm where my fulfillment should live. Today, you again gifted me purpose, my Witness. A rapturous day, by the old pattern, my fingers knitting finality once more. But now, this purpose is equivocal, serving not the glorious abyss. The race—the Ahslid, in their degenerate, clicking dialect—have never known the enemy's luminous caress, will never know that caress. They are unnecessary, destined to die in a paltry million years still orbiting the same blue-white star that gave them succor. Irrelevant. And yet… "Your presence shall raise no more concern than that of a speck of dust blown off course by a distant sun. And you shall bow this people to our service, just as we enlightened you. Your value shall be their value." I was born in irrelevance, and yet, you cast me back down that well. I keep your sacred commandments, even this, closer and dearer than my own pulse. In your name, I bring crushing embrace by flame and glaive, my Witness. Fleets of black to blot out suns and moons. The enemy flees, and I burn all trace of its passing. This is my supplication. But I castigate myself. Nothing is immaterial that is in your sight. My prayers offend my Witness, and so, here and now, I tear them out. I shall learn to forge by night and whispers, and silence shall be your choir.