a prophecy of ancient barogue

“The people will be scattered after the fall of Barogue
We retreat to the dwellings of the ancient Imix tribes
Southeast to the dwelling of choir and candle, the song on our lips.
Northeast to the dwelling of hills and shadow, where secrets may be kept
East to the dwelling of the forgotten underneath, hiding our sins deep below
Further east to the dwelling of the city in the skies, the last engine of our glory
Further yet to the dwelling of the last cradle,
Our last bastion of bravery, forgotten and ignored
Here the remnants of our power will be preserved
This machine cannot be stopped as long as our sins endure
The sands will remember our crimes.
I remain the master of this place, my divine right, our profane influence.
Seek out the CRADLE and save the memories of our people.

— The Final Words of the Prince Undying

Cast out from those dignified sands, I wandered for decades in pursuit of what I lost.  

Reduced to ashes and memory, I scoured the West in search of a replacement.

And yes, after an age my bloodied fingers met the durasteel face of an oldcestor Facility.

Desperate, I sought the key that would grant me the knowledge of its Creation, the Psion Vossa. 

Like a sick man searching for a cure, I broke into the ancient library and learned to read their impossible books. 

Each one brought me closer to understanding. To return my beloved Barogue to life and movement and commerce, that was my goal. 

I toiled in those dilapidated corridors for more than a decade. Like a boar I rooted through the dross of life and death and recollection; 

Searching for the worm that would deliver my people from their Grave.  And when at last I found it, it nearly destroyed me. 

The Truth was that Barogue would always fall, even if it was to return. We are a story, told and told and told again. 

Hubris was my sin, augmented by genius. But, perhaps that is my story too. Told, as it was, before I ever opened my mouth to speak. 

Ennui is an ancient word. It means decay, which is a thing that hardly has meaning now. Gone are the worms that crawl in and out of corpses. 

Killed by the Mortis, the scavengers of the world cannot feed on the bodies of the dead, so efficient is the work of the Grave Minds that shape us. 

Even were I to resurrect Old and Roving Barogue I believe Sister Mammon would simply steal again the Psion Vossa and cast me again into the Ardent Sea.

Yet, hope flickers in my chest like the distant light of the Vossa. There is surely something here for me.