We bury the dead. Insects feed on the flesh and bone... Rot takes hold... An entire lifetime reduced to feed for the grass above. A waste. But the soul, oh, the soul... The soul does not even feed the earth. It drifts invisibly into the ether, never harnessed, never used. Gone.
What greater waste of life is there than to let the soul flutter away into nothingness? We hope and wish for something more, but here and now we have tools that will guarantee no afterlife be necessary. We have the tools to build a utopian life here, in Wraeclast, through thaumaturgy. The only thing we lacked was time, but the gift of the Horns has given us that too.
Brothers and sisters, there's a new empire in the making, and we are its founders. Those that die for our cause will live on within us, and their names will be etched into the foundations of our utopia. — Read
