Prologue

For a long time, I've heard people speak falsely of the true nature of the "human" condition. They speak fallacies and teach fantasies that bely the true face of the human "mind". Man adorns reality with a costume as ignorant and arrogant as its own mask. Such nonsense has led to this ceaseless shedding of precious blood, the shearing of life-threads, the burning of settlements… the scouring of the weak, the vile and the damned as they sow pestilence upon the Faithful. The "dumbing down" of the "Truth" has led to the proliferation of "weak minds" in the world. This… prophesizing for the sake of the Lost and Hopeless has brought doom on Irnia. This "blurring" of lines that separate the Yin from the Yang has brought us to this blood drenched war. Carnage has fallen over the land like the pox wracks the skin of its victim. Creator help us. This war… this conflict of "Good and Evil"… how much of it is man's fault? Is it even our war?

A "war" with no end.

The swarthy-skinned, lightly black-armoured scout mused as he watched through binoculars the vast army of the Diaburuonu swarming the plains. An implacable enemy, a furious flood of corruption and death threatening to pour over a dam. Pahdraig and his battle-brothers were that dam, standing stalwart against the inimical tide of cultists, criminals and general twisted human scum in all their vile blood-crazed glory. Pahdraig, resplendent in the panoply of Mayhem—thrice-blessed armour of war and righteous demise—readied himself to bring bloody ruin upon the Adighike, the Ihojoo and the Diaburuonu.

The weak, vile and damned.

The foes of graceful humanity, banes seeking to occlude the christened herd of the Divine Shepherd. "I hope it'll be enough," the scout whispered as he turned from his perch atop the cliff to vanish into the woods behind him.