Maralamar statue in the woods

The Mogada Book of Knowledge and Wisdom

The Mists continue to roll. Their colour beautiful in all times of the Seasons and they roll and they roll. Now here be the time for them to part; for the Ancients, the Guardians of all things, would gaze upon this that Man would call Eritha.

What then is this stark sound which rises from the multitudes? And is it then the time of Devormaltadevor meaning to eat, Malta, millions, devormalta — in great sadness do they accord that the time is here. This land so gracious by the hand of the Unnamed One; the delicate twists and scrolls of its making, made ruinous by the hand of those to whom it was given. These the holders of the land have grown idle in mind and gross in body and gross to great sublimity of spirit. Guardians draw nearer and look. Yes, the time of Devormalta is nigh upon us.

The Mists roll. The future becomes the present, the present becomes the past. All time is now.

There. As the Guardians look, they see the Mists so fine. The mesh, the web, the sickness of evil. And woe unto Man. And woe unto beast. And woe unto all things that live and breathe upon this land. For if they do not feel the spirit of enlightenment to thrust within their very being, then is it that they should be saved? No. They may not. It would not be meet. Beast looks at beast: sick, drowning in their own misery. Is this how a proud beast should be? Unable to face the land that was given to it? Is this how those of the great seas should be? Marked and ill and sad in their unproudness? Is this how the winged ones should be? To fly, to soar, to reach almost to the Mists and then drop as a leaf from a tree? Is this how the mighty trees should be? Sick with the sickness of evil? And the ground that cries aloud that nourishment be given to it that it may feed its people.

O mighty Lord who, in thy wisdom, has given this land. Take not it back but give unto Man the strength to keep it lifed and to make it, once more, to be as hallowed as should be the air which yet carries this sickness as of a plague which stands on Eritha.

The Guardians bend their ears to listen and what does Man say? Dear God, take this not from us but give us that which would nourish all of Mankind. Animals cry; children cry; women cry; men cry; “There is nought to eat!” For Man has had too much and Man is gross in his unwisdom; gross unto death of the spirit. Then unto each man let him take his portion of land; let him make it well; let him remove the sickness and, upon it, grow that which will nourish his body. And to nourish his spirit, as the pangs of hunger consume him, so does the grid-gate of grossness rise and the sprit will be released.

Does it matter that Man shall hunger rather than this great land survive? That men may die, women weep, children cry, animals mewl. The Guardians have seen enough.

Then let the Mists roll and roll and roll and roll. Let Man take heed unto himself and answer to the Unnamed One for the pillage and obscenity which has spewed out upon the land.

(It is the Law)