I begin this in the winter of Deoch twenty... It has been twenty years since the tumultuous chaos of the world's resettling gave way to an Age of Aislings. How ironic that tonight I write of the very age of we Aislings; the measure of life, that is. I am nearing my thirty-third birthday, come the waxing of this moon I will have reached it. My looking glass, however, shows not a single wrinkle upon my face. My bones and muscles do not ache with the harsh weather that tries time and again to creep within the walls of my home. I am as virile, nay moreso, than when I first awoke that night when the Goddess' light first touched me.
    The world and its secrets have opened up to me since that first uncertain day. The only thing that seems burdened by all this is my own mortal mind. I can feel the magick though, with every beat my heart takes. It is almost like a strong liquor from which I can never sober from. I know it is not as pure in origin as that which Priests hold reign to, but I am not troubled by such.
    I do wonder, sometimes, what leaves the Wizard teachers across the villages to appear so very... Incorporeal? A lot is sacrificed for the paths we follow, as anyone should know. And indeed, my mind is strained when my body is not, and that leaves me to wonder where the future studies will take me. How much can be handled until no more can be tolerated? Alas, I've fallen on a morbid tangent. I mean to speak of all Aislings, and so I shall... I must.

    It is still too soon to know what true purpose we Aislings will hold as these decades slowly turn into a full century. The gods are watching with interest, no doubt, and it reminds me of a poker game in which the dealer has saccharine, knowing smile with each new card dealt out. No one else seems to care, at least on the onset. Even freed from mundane thinking, there is too much else to worry about.
    Mortality is not a subject anyone is eager to talk of, especially we who have known the touch of Sgrios upon our flesh. Only those who are scarred numerous times show any apparent wear. I certainly do not look beyond thirty, I dare say I still hold the appearance of some flitting court maiden... If only my mind were so unchained as theirs. The eyes... They always betray too much.
    Life goes on, as the age old saying recants. Followers of the five paths and eight dieties go about each day almost as if they were born Aislings, and never anything before. I must admit that it grows more difficult by the day to recall my life before I was Awakened in the twilight of the Chaos Age. That leaves me to wonder again of the ancient temple within Mileth, the circles that glower and seem to cackle with each new crossing. Another card that cannot be read. Some say we will discover what the meaning behind them too late. Just like aging, though, for now there can be only speculation. It is inherently pointless, I could go so far to say, as all speculation does is instill a false feeling of security. One day, we shall learn that we know nothing. And still, I write...

    The oldest Aisling I ever knew was thirty-nine when he was Awakened. I believe he was a field worker before, his family lost to one illness or another. To look at him, you wouldn't know that today he is approaching sixty. He is the clearest example that we Aislings seem frozen, if not slowed, in time, preserved for some day that only the gods can hope to guess the purpose of. And in the meantime, we work and toil in each of our paths. Our talents, our strengths, our wisdom increases. The land now knows many masters of their paths, some of them have even moved on to study other arts.

    Perhaps this is another gift of the light, to be protected from the ravages of time. There has been little time to know if it makes us immortal, but I doubt Sgrios would allow for that. This could be what Danaan wanted, to keep each of us around as long as possible, though to what end? Chadul will not rest forever, indeed, but can any number of centuries prepare us for what may come?
    Foolish Aislings have fallen quickly, or so we must assume. By the mercy of Glioca, the creativity of Deoch, and harmony of Cail- scars of Sgrios can be healed before they grow to much is number. Each mark would seem a debt upon the soul, until finally the Darkness claims the unfortunate. Me? I have never heard of such happening, but people talk. Nothing can last forever, but we seem to be preserved like dried goods for winter. By the right mixture, one near death can be snatched away from the brink. By the powers of the gods allowing, the touch of death can be wiped away. All of this daunts He who would claim our very souls in the hopes of waking his Master. A follow of Sgrios would probably say something much differently, but I have spent too much time within the domain of the Dubhaim to be fooled. Darkness and Chaos hold no true loyalties. When Chadul rises, he will most likely devour his Aisling followers first of all.
    And Yet not even Chadul can sleep forever. No peace can last, just as no war can (although history shows us they can drag on a bloody long time).

    When does our end come? Personal, or greater. That is for time to tell.
    Mundanes toil from day to day, and in the shadows they see the mortality that looms before them which each day's passing. When will the first Aisling be laid down to rest? Many have faded into obscurity, many have wandered from the known lands of Temuair and have never come back. But Death? There has been no word of such among our number, not permanent. The closest thing to passing is giving up... I speak of suicide.
    There is a great difference, between taking one's life and having it taken. There is no doubt a willingly offered Aisling soul would not be taken with a skeletal grin upon Sgrios' immaciated face. Those I speak for,  however, are those who wish to remain out of such an eternal grasp. I can offer nothing but my halfhearted condolences for those who have gone by the wayside, where ever they may be now. Perhaps one day, when my mind is broken... No, nevermind.

    I notice I shiver as I write this. My pen too, becomes unsteady. Another winter storm is coming, and I doubt a burning hearth at every corner could fully keep the weather from creeping in just a little bit. I wish I could write more of this, but the subject is shrouded in a heavy mist. It is late anyway, and my mind is made heavier than my eyelids as I try and fathom what the age my body does not show is all about.
    And so, earlier than I would like, I close this feeble writing. The wind is howling at the windows now, reminding me of an angry reaper that would claim his prize. I hope I should look back on this scrap of parchment and laugh, or perhaps I'll unfold it on my dying day and see what amount of truth I was able to touch upon.
    The future is uncertain, and when writing of it, one can only close on similar terms.

           -Katrionah Rosalette, Deoch 20
                    Wizardess of Luathas.