Dividing borders
Soldiers just following orders
They do not naturally hate
Yet their will to zealotism they abdicate
They aren't born to such hate
Yet to that zealot, their will they abdicate
Abdicate their empathy
Give their sympathy to antipathy
In them awakens hatred
Not natural, but from strings so sophisticated
Puppets to zealots, who in turn are puppets as well
They do not know of their cycle, which is so stale
They will kill
Again and again they will
They were taught this hatred
By people who too were manipulated
So to the origin of this curse
May it end and disperse
For what innocence was the first to die
Let us not say to another abstract - goodbye

Written by an anonymous survivor of war.

You look closely, observing the writing on this old journal page

From the Journal of Farris Severan, a reportedly failed lich

You observe a tattered piece of paper. What is written on it seems to be written hastily, but it is still readable

These spectres of the past will not refrain from traversing my mind
I can feel my sense of sanity slowly going blind
Questions posed everywhere, yet they are not mine
I do not think I am so very fine
Answers appear everywhere, but not the ones they seek
I feel my sanity starting to leak
Was that blood theirs, his, hers, or mine?
I do not think I am so very fine
Insanity is what lords over me now
Worms slithering from under my brow
I have weird bugs rattling in my brain
I still hope and think I am sane!
Still, such bad thoughts are hard to keep dead
Hopefully nobody finds where I put my head
For surely such ailment is contagious
The thought of treatment is so outrageous!
Yet they knock on the door this late day
And with their entrance, there is nothing more to say!

Found and located in a burnt down cabin deep in the Cellsvich Forest.

You read the elegantly designed piece of paper. The penmanship is impeccable.

There once was a man who indeed had a plan
To stop evil in the best ways he can
To bloom life and mirth for those who deserve such
To whither away those who've taken far too much
Wretches shall cower
Mortal Flaw will cease to tower
For while the Grey Flower blooms for the mirth, the life, and the day
Someone must pay for this mortal decay
Perhaps this is a man chosen by fate
Or simply a self-chosen destiny they come to date
Perhaps it is many under the guise of one name
Perhaps it is one man that simply will not stay tame
They've likely seen things you could only dream
And perhaps they are someone you know that isn't whom they seem
So cheer and aid the grey bloom those of the right
Cower and fear for those of the blight

Told by a village elder from a travelling tribe found near Chatarunga

You decided to read this smaller scroll, the writing on it seemed impeccable.

I one day happened upon a Red-Tail down on their luck, indeed I did. This man was from a grand standing family, indeed he was, though it was sad that he missed what he could have had. You see now, you see now, this man had broken one rule, one rule indeed had he broken! His mother's father was quite a horrendous shite you see, one that sadly had both bark and bite! One might assume he was abusive or rude, but no no no! He was simply harboring one thing this Red-Tail needed! A title of honor. Since he bore the slightly curved blade of the Onigan combatant, he was indeed unworthy for such a title in the eyes of his mother's father! He was to be a knight, a grand hero of myth and legend, one of greatness, destined for grand acts of heroism that few could compete! Sadly, sadly indeed, he was cheated from such a honor due to this one simple deed, he practiced the blade of his father's craft, and due to that, his mother's father thought him daft! So he went away to here and fro, to all over, and even then he woe'd. He still lacked this title of honor, and not alcohol, nor lady, nor some poor unlucky tail, would ever cease his sorrowful wail! This of course was a few years in the past, so perhaps the Red-Tails bad luck couldn't last... but who's to know, and who's to see, what this Red-Tail might eventually be! Did I bother to mention he was PINK?! I know, I know, such chances of that are low, and you must wonder if this is a tall tale or if I have truly gone insane, but I bet you one day, one day indeed, you'll all see this Red-Tail doing at least one grand deed!

Anonymous Author, Ascending Authority and Action

You read this old parchment. It smells of ink... and alcoholic drink. The hand-writing seems like that of an elderly old man with little control of their hands.

The more I see and too what I bear witness
The more faded it becomes; my remembrance
A charred requiem put to the pyre
A forming rage over the muffled choir
Sing now louder, sing now higher
Please raise thou voices! Raise them my muffled choir!
A trip to the past in which I so desire
O Sadness; the bridge burned by Requiem’s pyre!
I weep now at the ashes… all the memories now dust
My stalwart bulwark begins to rust
Now it seems it’s my mind that I can not trust
Howling to the wind, a fruitless venture
This sorrow born of loss, nothing can measure…
None can hear the boy who cried and howled
So quiet was he in shade of the choir long-ago muted
Soon he forgot to howl, so bad his memory, how it was diluted
Outsiders left to mourn the mute choir
Their final words from a unheard crier
“The moment of memory has long passed…
The final shadow of the lost is the one I now cast…”

Written by a deceased elderly man.

You decided to read the clean piece of paper. The hand-writing resembles chicken scratch, but is, at the least, readable.

The play of the game
To shift away the blame
To put it on another name
But in the end it’s all the same
You are the architect of your despair
You are the architect of your disrepair
It is yourself that is the spirit of enabling
You are the cause of your own crippling
Why blame the rest of the pride
When it’s only you inside
Others can help you along
But only you can make yourself wrong
You’re the helmsman of your ship
Only you control the principles of your trip
Blame naught the devil
For it is you that brought yourself to such a low level
It’s only your own dark soul
One that will take it’s toll
The seeds you’ve sown are the seeds you’ll reap
These seeds are yours, the ones you’ve planted so deep
So forsake the game
And take the blame
For when you ignore what you’ve done wrong
The dark road of recovery can be quite long
So make right with your goals
Or it is you for whom the bell tolls...

Written by a paranoid writer.

You decided to read the parchment within the frame, despite the cracked glass obscuring some of the writing. The hand writing seemed to be rushed. Perhaps the last writings of a dying man?

Eternal rage his living brother
At his unborn death was a weeping mother
Sorrow and Greed his Aunt and Uncle
Unaware of Peace and it's inevitable crumble
War, a deceitful Father
To cease and salvage, a idea it won't bother
So sleep soundly Unborn
Evade this foul and wretched world's scorn
Your name? Innocence
Your underachieved goal to bring the world penitence
The crimes we've written from the souls long gone
All of them hoped to see another dawn
So rest now, what was never awake
If only you had come, for mortal's sake.

The final writings of a doctor in war