The old altars are broken and buried, the temples are burnt to the ground. I try in vain to honor the traditions of the past, to rekindle the flame, to send a message, but I lack the knowledge. I turn to the scrying sphere, but you do not answer! You are forgotten, and as long as your texts elude me, I can do nothing. It is not right, but what is a newly inaugurated priest of a long dead order to do? Where do I start?

Candles? Exotic furs? Porcelain statuettes? Jewelry? Mincemeat pies? Pop tarts? Fax machines? Poodles? I knew your words to be the absolute truth the moment I read and comprehended them. The lone page I found that night was torn and vague, and I yearn for more. Give me a sign! I am desperate to serve you.