Lorebook: Bramburn
The dark history of one unfortunate village, and how its demise has been immortalized.Bramburn
(Still Burns)
LORE
Background
Bramburn is a town remembered not only for its fertile lands and rich woodland but for the infamous Slaughter at Bramburn, the final battle of the Second Inquisition. Once a modest but thriving stronghold, Bramburn was razed to the ground in 98 SO. The castle and its surrounding villages were destroyed, marking the end of the Second Inquisition and the Church’s decisive victory over accused practitioners of magic. The tale of Bramburn’s fall has since become a rallying cry for dissidents and anti-Inquisition movements, immortalized in the popular tavern song, Bramburn Still Burns.
Slaughter at Bramburn
The massacre that took place at Bramburn marked the end of the Second Inquisition. Inquisitors, acting under orders of Warden Crowley, sought to snuff out what they believed was one of the last major centers of magic resistance, and executed a full-scale assault on the town. The slaughter was indiscriminate - men, women, and children were cut down as heretics, the castle was set ablaze, and the surrounding villages were put to the torch. The fires burned for days, reducing the once-proud town to ash and ruin. Though the Church declared victory, the destruction of Bramburn became a symbol of the Inquisition's cruelty.
Bramburn Still Burns
The massacre inspired one of the most enduring pieces of anti-Inquisition folklore: the song Bramburn Still Burns. Sung in hushed tones by dissidents and those critical of the Church's actions, the song has kept alive the memory of the slaughter, serving as a reminder of the brutal lengths the Church went to in its quest for control.
Though banned in many regions controlled by the Church or the Second Order, the song has endured for centuries. Its lyrics speak of the flames that consumed the town, but also of the spirit that endures, defying the Inquisition's attempt to erase the past.
Original Lyrics:
O'er hill and river, past brook and thrush
The blood-soaked banner did wave
All alight with fear and dread
Of naught but lowly mage
Ol' Coward came with fire in eyes
And iron clenched in hand
He rode hard that starless night
To scorch our father's land
So lift up your voices
And pass 'round the ale,
For the Warden's long gone
But we still tell the tale
While the embers still smolder
We drink to the flames
So raise up your glasses
And toast their names
The smoke may've risen
The stones may've turned
But deep in our hearts
BRAMBURN STILL BURNS
Additional Stanza:
With ash in our throats
And fire for blood
We'll not turn back now, for
BRAMBURN STILL BURNS
The Half-King
A newly-crowned king grapples with the weight of his throne and title.The Half-King
The dying fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the longhall. Outside, a bitter late-winter wind howled through the valley, sweeping down from the barren, desolate peaks of the Grimwall.
Those gathered tonight sat close, dining on roasted hare and carrots, washed down with warm spiced wine. The quiet clink of silver cutlery against pewter plates filled the hall, broken only by the occasional fit of laughter or the low murmur of conversation. Many of these men were accustomed to simple luxuries - a warm hearth, a full belly, a strong drink. Though they bore titles and had taken up arms for Falreach, most had been shielded by their lineage, serving far from the heat of battle. They were posted in cushioned keeps, kept safe by name as much as by steel, their conflicts fought from behind well-fortified walls.
But while the others feasted, one man sat silent.
King Derrick’s brow furrowed in quiet contemplation, his eyes distant. Perhaps pondering some weighty matter of state, or perhaps he was simply adjusting to the heavy iron circlet that now rested on his head.
The crown was new to him that night, and it sat uncomfortably.
Where other kings wore crowns of gold, studded with jewels and crystals that caught the light, his was plain wrought iron - a symbol not of wealth or grandeur, but of the hard, unyielding land he ruled. A single sharp point at the front hinted at the coronet’s only decoration, while a worn strip of leather inside offered scant relief to the one burdened by its weight.
A slender, gaunt man - though not without a certain rugged appeal - Derrick sat quietly, his brow furrowed in thought. His years, nearing fifty, were etched into the fine lines around his eyes and mouth, but they hadn’t stripped him of the quiet strength he still carried. His plate remained untouched, the spiced wine cooling at his side, forgotten. There was a heaviness to him tonight, as if the weight of his new title had settled not only on his shoulders but deep into his bones.
“Do you know what they call me?” Derrick said suddenly, his voice sharp, cutting through the soft murmur of the longhall.
The nobles around him quieted. Lord Amric, ever the cautious one, glanced up from his drink, his pale eyes darting between Derrick and the other men, always ready to play the diplomat. “Sire, I’m sure-”
“They think it jest,” Derrick interrupted, voice low but trembling with barely contained frustration. “But it’s not.”
Lord Hobb, stout and unflappable, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He and Derrick had trained together as young squires, his heavy fists known to break bone and spirit alike. “They’re commoners, my lord. What do they know of crowns and kingdoms?”
Derrick’s fingers clenched around the stem of his cup, his knuckles whitening. “More than they should,” he muttered, the firelight casting harsh shadows across his furrowed brow. “I hear it whispered in every tavern in every village. Even in the halls of MY OWN BLEEDING CASTLE!” his voice raising in anger. “Do you think I’m deaf to it?!” His gaze swept the table, daring any of them to speak.
Amric cleared his throat cautiously, “Sire, they’re just words. Idle gossip from-”
“JUST WORDS?!” Derrick’s fist slammed onto the table, rattling plates and silencing the room. “Is that all it takes to bring a king low? Words? Do you not see what they do? They mock me! They mock US! ALL OF US! FOOLS! That’s all we are to them!”
Lord Gelfrey, younger than the rest, tall and lean like a blade, opened his mouth to speak but quickly thought better of it. The others, sensing the gathering storm in Derrick’s tone, averted their eyes.
“They call me less,” Derrick continued, rising abruptly from his seat, his chair scraping against the stone floor with a shrill screech. His sudden movements sent a jolt through the room. “They think I don’t belong on this throne. They look at me and see a man who wasn’t born to rule.”
He began to pace, his right leg dragging behind him as he strode the length of the hall, wincing with every step. “They say I’m no true king, as if I haven’t fought for this realm, bled for it. As if wearing this-” he reached up, touching the rough iron circlet on his brow “-somehow makes me less.”
The room was quiet. None dared meet his gaze, not when his temper flared like this.
Lord Hobb, ever blunt, ventured a response. “Sire, what does it matter what they say? You sit the throne now. Let them whisper their petty nonsense.”
“It matters,” Derrick growled, turning on his heel to face him. “It matters because it’s not nonsense, is it?” His voice rose, trembling with anger. “They say it because they believe it. They call me...” He hesitated, his face twisting with frustration, the words choking out of him. “They call me...half a king.”
The room fell into an uneasy silence, the weight of those words finally spoken hanging in the air like a curse. Derrick’s chest heaved with anger, his breath sharp and ragged.
Finally, Derrick spoke again, his voice low and trembling. “They think I’m some unfinished thing. Some...unworthy pretender.” His hands clenched at his sides, the iron circlet on his brow feeling heavier with each word.
He stopped pacing, his eyes narrowing at the men sitting before him. “Get out.”
A pause.
Lord Gelfrey blinked, as if not sure he’d heard correctly. “Sire?”
“I said, fucking get out!” Derrick roared, his voice echoing through the hall. “All of you! Go!”
One by one, they filed out, their footsteps a muffled shuffle in the silence. The heavy wooden door groaned as it swung shut, and the hall was left empty save for Derrick - and one other.
Brenar, Derrick’s oldest and most trusted advisor, remained seated, watching the king with calm, steady eyes. He had weathered Derrick’s tempers before, and he knew when to speak, and when to wait.
After a long, heavy silence, Derrick sank back into his chair with a pained groan, the firelight catching on the worn edges of his iron crown. He exhaled, the anger seeming to drain from him, leaving only weariness behind.
Brenar stood slowly, walking toward him with measured steps. He didn’t speak immediately, but when he did, his voice was calm and steady. “Do you really think you’re half a king, my lord?”
Derrick laughed bitterly. “Isn’t that what they say?”
“They say many things,” Brenar replied, pulling a chair close and sitting beside his king. “But they also say you weren’t born to rule, and yet here you are. They say you don’t belong, and yet you lead them. And now they call you...that.”
Derrick glanced sideways at his advisor. “Go on, say it. Half-King.”
Brenar met his gaze, unflinching. “You know why they call you that, don’t you? They fear what you’ve become. You weren’t given this title, Derrick. You took it. You carved it out of a realm full of men who thought they were kings. And now they say you’re half because you’ve done more with half of what they had.”
Derrick stared at him, the bitter taste of those words still heavy in his mouth. “It’s still a mockery.”
“Not for long,” Brenar said quietly. “The day will come when they’ll whisper it in reverence. Because you didn’t have to be born to this - you made yourself into it.”
Derrick’s brow furrowed, the firelight flickering against the iron circlet on his head. The weight of his title still sat heavy on his shoulders, but Brenar’s words found their mark, settling deep within.
“Let them call me Half-King,” Derrick muttered, his voice low but steady. “I’ll make sure they remember the other half.”
Brenar smiled faintly. “Now you sound like a king.”
A Guest in the Summer Kingdom, pt. 1
In the sweltering heart of R'asha’s bustling market, Garrick follows his fixer into the shadows.A Guest in the Summer Kingdom
The smell of onion, herbs, and warmspice filled the crowded market hall, mingling with the scent of roasting meats and the sweet tang of ripe fruit. Traders from far-flung corners of the kingdom displayed their wares with colorful fabrics and gilded trinkets, enticed buyers with promises of exotic spices, or bartered over a cart full of ripe, golden melons. The crowd shifted and flowed like a living thing, a river of bodies and noise, moving beneath the hot midday sun.
One traveler, however, stood apart. His close-cropped lightning-white hair, startlingly bright against the sea of darker hues, drew curious glances from the locals who cast suspicious eyes in his direction. The people of R’asha were known for their hospitality, but strangers - especially those as conspicuous as Garrick - were often met with equal parts curiosity and wariness.
Garrick tugged at the collar of his soft linen robe, the only comfort he could find in the heavy, oppressive air. The humidity seemed to cling to his skin like a wet, irritating film he couldn't rub off.
"I thought this was a desert kingdom," he muttered under his breath, his fingers twitching at the fabric as if he could peel away the heat.
Beside him, Asir - his fixer and self-proclaimed guide - let a smile tug at the corner of his lips. "Well, it was. And then it wasn’t," he replied, his voice calm, with a dryness that mirrored the land’s shifting fortunes.
Garrick shot him a glance. "Your knowledge is truly astounding. I can see why Warden Thomas recommended you."
Asir’s eyes twinkled with mischief, though he kept his expression composed. "The Summer Kingdom, my friend, is no longer just sand and dust. We have rivers, you know. Wells that don’t run dry, and heat that no longer comes from the sky but from the air itself." He gestured broadly to the bustling market hall, the towering buildings of R’asha casting long shadows over the traders and their goods. "A land reborn. A land of abundance, if you know where to look."
Garrick grunted, less than convinced, as he stepped aside to avoid a laden cart being pushed through the narrow space between market stalls. "Abundance of heat and people, I’ll give you that."
Asir’s smile grew, though he didn’t respond immediately. He led Garrick through the market, weaving between traders shouting in a dozen different tongues, their voices rising above the din. The air was thick with it all - the smell of spices, the press of bodies, and the weight of unspoken deals made in every corner.
As they walked, Asir’s voice dropped lower, slipping into a more cautious tone. "What you’re really asking, though, is if you’ll find what you came here for."
Garrick slowed his steps, his hand instinctively brushing against the pouch hidden beneath his robe. He glanced at Asir, then back at the crowd. "And will I?"
Asir’s eyes flickered toward the distant edge of the market, where the bright colors of the stalls seemed to dull into shadow. "That depends. Some treasures can’t be bought with coin alone."
Garrick stopped. "I’ve already paid your price, Asir."
The fixer met his gaze, his expression unreadable for the first time since they’d met. "True enough. But here in R’asha, the real deals are always made in the shade. Come," he said, nodding toward a narrow alley between two sandstone buildings. "We’re not quite done yet."
As they stepped into the alley, the noise of the market faded behind them, replaced by the muffled whispers of a different world - one Garrick wasn’t sure he was ready to face.
Under the Crown’s Shadow, pt. 1
Storm clouds gather over Greengood, and Lady Rosamund steels herself for an inevitable clash.Under the Crown’s Shadow
The air in Greengood carried the scent of rain clinging to the wind as it swept across the ramparts. Lady Rosamund stood at the edge of the stone wall, her hands pressed into the cold surface, eyes fixed on the distant ridge where the Andar banners still flew. They had been there for weeks now, fluttering in defiance, a reminder that this land - her land - was still contested. The storm loomed on the horizon, clouds swollen and dark, but her thoughts were elsewhere, drawn to the weight of the decision that had been made.
Behind her, Ser Elric approached, the sound of his armor muted by the wind. He waited a moment before speaking, as if testing the air. "You sent for me?"
Rosamund didn’t turn. "How many left yesterday?" Her voice was steady, though she already knew the answer.
"A few dozen. More will likely desert by nightfall, I suspect," Elric replied, his tone even. "They fear what’s coming."
Rosamund’s grip on the stone tightened, her knuckles white against the grey of the wall. "They think they’ll be safe outside the city? They think they’ll escape this?"
"They don’t think, my lady. They react. They hear rumors of Andar’s forces, of King Arvin’s plans, and they run." He moved beside her, gazing out over the valley. "They don’t know what’s coming, not truly."
Rosamund’s gaze turned toward the edge of the distant ridge, where the banners of the Andar stirred restlessly in the growing wind. She could just make out the sigils of the noble houses under King Arvin’s rule, each more familiar than she cared to admit. Closest to the ridge stood the black serpent of House Daresh, a symbol of unyielding ambition. They were the king’s oldest allies, their loyalty earned through blood and gold. Further down, she spotted the crimson sunburst of House Valen, their arrogance as blinding as their crest. She had crossed paths with them once, and the memory still left a sour taste. Beyond that, banners of lesser houses fluttered - House Mirren, with their winged boar, a symbol of unearned pride; House Alden, whose black wolf-pup snarled in defiance of a past long forgotten.
These were not just banners. They were reminders - each one a herald of the forces arrayed against her. Old families with old grievances, drawn together under the shadow of King Arvin’s crown.
"No one does," she muttered.
She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, the damp air pressing against her skin. Elric was right. They didn’t know. Neither did she, not entirely. But she knew enough. Arvin’s hunger for expansion had never been subtle, and he would not rest until all Essarian cities were under his rule. The weight of that realization had settled on her like the storm clouds above - gradually at first, and then all at once.
"What of the Ushani?" she asked, shifting her gaze to the north. "Any word?"
Elric’s expression darkened. "Two of the tribes have pledged to Arvin’s cause. The third remains silent, but they’ve been offered a share of the land."
"And the Chezāhrani?"
"Nothing yet. They claim neutrality."
"Neutrality." Rosamund let the word hang in the air, her lips twisting in a faint sneer. "It won’t last."
She pushed off the wall, turning to face the captain of her guard. The Andar banners were a distant concern now. What mattered were the cities to the north, the fortifications being hastily rebuilt along the border. They had time, but not much. Arvin’s patience was never long, and his reach extended far beyond what it had in years past. Now, he had allies.
"They’ve begun work on upgrading the outposts, but we’ll need more time," Elric said, his voice lowering. "The people are rallying, but if Arvin brings his full force, we’ll need every able body we can muster. We need them to believe in this."
Rosamund met his gaze, her expression unreadable, her eyes flickering with something deeper than mere resolve. "Belief doesn’t stop a blade."
"No," Elric conceded, glancing down at his gauntleted hands. "But it keeps a sword in hand when it’s needed."
The sky rumbled, a low growl from the storm building on the horizon. Rosamund’s thoughts drifted back to the Essarian cities - the places that were supposed to be hers by right, now slipping away with each passing day, each banner planted in foreign soil. The fortifications wouldn’t be enough, she knew that. But they were all they had. And it would be enough, for now.
"King Arvin will come," she said, her voice quieter now, almost lost to the wind. "When he does, we’ll be ready. Not for long. But long enough."
Elric said nothing, the weight of her words settling between them. The rain had begun to fall, soft at first, spattering against the stone and the cold iron of their armor. The banners in the distance blurred, fading into the mist of the coming storm.
"We’ll be ready," Rosamund repeated, though the words felt heavier this time, as if they carried with them the full force of what lay ahead. She turned from the ramparts, pulling her cloak tight against the rain.
She walked toward the keep, the storm closing in behind her. They would hold, as long as they could. As long as it took.
Sunder, pt. 1
In the mist-covered canals of Kiras, the early return of the amberfish stirs unease.Sunder
As the summer fog settled atop the waters of Kiras, the city’s labyrinth of canals and bridges flickered with the pale orange glow of the amberfish, their shimmering scales casting rippling light onto the stone buildings above. The people of Kiras called this time of year the Sahmtide, a night when the waters seemed to hum with unseen voices, and the amberfish returned in great numbers, lighting the waterways as if the city floated atop a glowing sea.
In the narrow streets and market squares, the sound of life carried through the mist - merchants closing their stalls, the distant din of evening prayers from the Keshari Temple, and the muffled laughter of children playing along the canal banks. Their legs dangled into the body-warm water, toes flicking the surface, sending the amberfish scattering in every direction. Their parents, standing nearby, exchanged knowing looks, the same ones passed down through generations.
"Don’t scare them off!" one mother called gently. "They bring fortune if they linger."
The amberfish, long adored by the locals, had always been more than just simple creatures of the water. Their glowing forms were seen as a sign from the Fates, their arrival marking the start of a season of plenty. In years past, the return of the amberfish had heralded fruitful broadleaf harvests, safe and bountiful hunts, or even noble births. The fishermen of Kiras revered them, offering small devotions to Shaelas, the Veiled Flame, whose influence they believed stirred the creatures from their hidden depths.
But this year was different. They had come too early - weeks before the usual start of Sahmtide. Their presence now felt out of place. Although outwardly grateful for the prosperity the amberfish might bring, the people of Kiras exchanged whispers behind closed doors, casting cautious glances at the waterways that threaded throughout the city.
"This is not their time," one elder muttered to another as they passed by the canals, eyes drawn to the glowing shapes beneath the surface. "The Fates don’t shift without reason."
Nearby, a group of fishermen stood in quiet discussion, their hands resting on the worn handles of their nets. They too had noticed the early return, and the unspoken fear lingered between them - that something had disturbed the natural order. The waters of Kiras had always been a lifeline, feeding both the body and spirit of its people. But the amberfish, once a blessing, now felt like a curse.
Overhead, the sky darkened, and the distant drum of thunder echoed through the mist. The children continued to play by the canals, unaware of the subtle shift in the air, their laughter ringing out against the gathering storm. In the city’s heart, priests of the Drowned Echoes murmured in low voices, their prayers growing more urgent, their eyes glancing to the glowing waters below.
Some whispered that the Fates were sending a sign, while others wondered if the people had somehow angered the spirits that dwelled in the Cradle, the dense and near-impenetrable rainforest that surrounded the small kingdom. In Kiras, where waterways crisscrossed with ancient footpaths and the temples stood tall above the rising mist, the boundary between the natural and the spiritual worlds had always felt fragile.
And now, with the amberfish swimming too soon and the wind picking up with a strange chill, that fragility felt all too real.
Blood in the Water
Caught in the howling winds of the Sea of Storms, Captain Torkil leads his crew on a deadly pursuit.Blood in the Water
"HOLD THIS LINE, CAPTAIN!" Helmsman Indrik shouted from the bow, his voice barely rising above the howling winds and the crashing waves. His hands gripped the wet wood of the helm, knuckles white as he fought to keep the Everroam steady amidst the chaos of the Sea of Storms. "We’re nearly on them!"
A flurry of activity erupted on the rain-soaked deck. The ship, squat and sturdy with its forty oars, seemed to fly atop the cresting waves, heaving and dipping like a wild beast unshackled. The air was cold, sharp as a blade, stinging the faces of the crew as they moved with hurried precision. Every man aboard knew that the sea held no mercy for hesitation.
"Steady now!" Captain Torkil barked from the stern, his voice gravelly from years spent braving the northern winds. His drenched furs clung heavily to his frame, but the cold didn’t bother him - it never had. "I said hold her steady, Indrik!"
The sea roared in response, the dark water churning in a fury beneath the hull. The relentless storm clouds loomed above, heavy and swollen, the horizon swallowed in mist and rain. The wind howled like some foul cry, and for a moment, the ship seemed like a small, fragile thing - caught between the wrath of the sky and the rage of the sea.
Five men clambered up from the hold, their feet slipping against the slick wood as they struggled against the storm. They carried with them long, maple-hewn rods - heavy, darkened poles tipped with ironwork, the edges gleaming despite the gloom. Polespars, every one of them, hardened by years of harsh seas and harsher winters, their hands calloused from wielding the tools of their trade over countless voyages.
"Polespars!" Torkil roared, his voice cutting through the tempest. "Stay lashed to the windward side and ready arms!" His eyes narrowed as he stared out into the distance, where the waves rose and fell in towering swells. "The whale-road is ours today."
The crew moved with purpose, strapping themselves to the windward side of the ship, securing their lines as they readied their weapons. Every breath came out as mist, mixing with the cold spray of the sea. Tension crackled in the air, every man watching the dark waters, waiting for the moment. The moment when the storm would break, when the waves would part, and their quarry would appear.
"Do you see them?" Indrik called from the bow, his voice tight with anticipation, eyes straining through the mist and rain.
Torkil’s gaze was locked ahead, unblinking, hand tightening on the hilt of his belt knife. "Not yet," he muttered, his breath misting in the air. "But they’re here. I can feel it in the wind."
The Sea of Storms had always been a cruel mistress - its waters frigid, its weather unpredictable, its depths hiding terrors unknown to most men. But for the Norrin, the sea was not something to be feared. It was a companion, an adversary, a partner in a dance for survival. They did not come to the sea lightly.
A gust of wind tore across the deck, the ship lurching as a wave crashed against the hull, sending cold seawater cascading over the side. But the men held firm, poles ready, eyes sharp.
And then it happened.
"THERE!" Indrik’s voice rang out, his arm thrust forward into the storm. The waves swelled and parted, revealing a massive, dark shadow beneath the surface. For an instant, time seemed to slow - the breath of the men caught in their throats, the wind howling in their ears. The shape moved, enormous and slow, gliding beneath the surface like some ancient leviathan.
"Aye, there they are," Torkil growled, his eyes gleaming with fierce determination. "Polespars - prepare!"
The dark shape grew larger, closer, the water around it churning as if the sea itself was being pulled into its wake. The Everroam heaved on the waves, drawing nearer, every man bracing for what was to come. And then, in one breathtaking moment, the sea exploded upward - a great wall of water surging as the enormous bulk of a whale broke the surface. Its black skin glistened in the storm, water pouring off its back as it let out a deep, reverberating groan, its massive tail slicing through the waves.
"TO ARMS!" Torkil bellowed, raising his knife high, the iron glinting in the stormlight. The men moved in unison, thrusting their spears forward, their arms trembling as the iron-tipped rods met flesh and bone.
The whale let out a deafening bellow, thrashing against the ship’s side as blood bloomed in the dark water. The whale moved listlessly beneath the storm-wracked waves like some ancient dying giant, its mournful cries lost to the wind.
Torkil, breath heavy, eyes wild, shouted through the storm. "By the blood of the deep, we’ve earned our share!"
The First Edict
The Imperium's first edict established a rigid doctrine to purge magic and heresy, cementing divine law across Atheria.The First Edict
Concerning the Purification of the Realm
Proclaimed in the First Year of the Sanctified Order, By Decree of the High Marked and the Hallowed Conclave of the Imperium, In Accordance with the Third Revelation of the Fates and Sanctified by the Eternal Flame of Orithal
To the Lands of Atheria, To Its Sovereigns, and To Its Faithful…
By the will of the Four Fates and the Accord of the Sanctified Order, let this decree be cast upon the world.
The age of silent tolerance is at its end. No longer shall the shadowed whispers of the arcane coil themselves around our hearths, our halls, and our hearts. The light of the Fates demands a reckoning, and their threads have guided us to this moment of clarity.
In the name of Neyara’s endless tides, Oris’ unbroken design, Ilvar’s weft of destiny, and Shaelas’ flame of change, the Imperium speaks with one voice. Let these words carry the weight of iron and the solemnity of stone, for they are the pillars of the righteous and the death knell of heresy.
From every high tower to the humblest village square, this Edict is to be read aloud, marked in blood and bound to memory. Let the faithful and unmarked hold fast to their piety, to their purity, and for the sanctity of Atheria. For defiance bears no name but treason, and treason bears no end but the sword.
Hear now the law of the Imperium, wrought with the Fates' own fire…
THUS WILLED, none bearing the stain of magic shall hold sacred office, nor shall they stand among the Reverent, nor speak the words of the Fates. Those who walk the path of apostasy, whose blood is fouled and twisted by the corrupting essence of the arcane, are henceforth declared heretics before the Four Fates and the Imperium.
THUS WILLED, all marks of mage - be they brand or secreted practice - shall be rooted out and revealed, for the perfidy of their kind knows no bounds. To harbor such corruption, to grant refuge or shelter to those who wield the blasphemous arts, is to invite treachery against the Fates themselves. All such acts shall be met with swift judgment and the righteous might of divine will.
THUS WILLED, no Sacral Chamber, church, nor consecrated ground shall suffer the presence of mages or their ilk. Their shadows shall not fall upon holy places, and their breath shall not profane the air where prayers rise to the Fates. Those who defy this decree shall be cast from the light of faith, their names struck from the rolls of the righteous.
THUS WILLED, no bond shall be forged between mage and unmarked man. Any who consort with the corrupted, be it through oath, trade, or blood, shall share in their treachery and fall under the same judgment.
THUS WILLED, the faithful shall bring forward those suspected of bearing the mark, that they may face the trials of truth. In service to the Imperium, let all who harbor the corrupt reveal them, lest they themselves be seen as tainted by silence.
THUS WILLED, these tenets shall be upheld in all lands, by all kings and kingdoms, by all who swear fealty to the sanctity of order and the truth of the Four Fates. Let these words echo across the seas and mountains, through the valleys and plains, binding all to the holy purpose.