We are not normally creatures of ceremony, we Dragonkin, yet I feel the need for it in our great endeavour. Perhaps the old priests, like that fool Kranon, have a point, for what better way to acknowledge something’s importance, than to dress it up in ritual?
Candles. Music. Well-tailored robes: these are the tools that I craft for my companions and myself, so that we may give this moment the reverence it requires. Even Avisk, with his constant sarcasm and flippancy, succumbs to the gravity of the moment.
We will not be gods.
We will not be False Users, claiming the power of the Roakin’s artifacts.
We will be something else, something more. We will be the earth, the wind, the blaze of the sun and the crashing waves of the ocean. We will be primordial forces incarnate.
There is music, a song from the old world, before it was lost in the Great Revision. It speaks of the passage of time, the solemnity of the stars and the eternity of creation. Nonsense, and proved terribly wrong, yet… fitting, all the same.
I wrote it. It is some of my best work.
The Harmonic Resonator builds into a great orchestra of anima. Dazzling threads of colour dance and writhe according to my grand design. I watch them spiral overhead, swirling in a scintillating circle and I smile at my last moment of mundane mortality, as fire and I become one.