This ingenuous, ingenious litany, all-encompassing in its simplicity: This has ever been the maxim to which I, Bishop Xavier Holst, have endeavored to direct my thoughts and channel my deeds; and though I as much as any Shadow-tainted wretch have erred, have sinned, have mistaken and misinterpreted, it has ever been this immortal credo that has guided my dimming eyes back into the Pancreator's grace. Now, O celestial muses and disincarnate intelligences, guide my hand also, and let this humble scribe forever keep his covenant.
Surely some adage of truth, of meaning, of stability and permanence is needed in this forsaken age, when the worlds drift one from the other, and the rulers cast humanity into the cauldron of war, and terrible shapes waft from the abysses between the stars, and even the suns fade. Moreso than ever, in this, the Year of the Pancreator 4976, the Shadow waxes strong, and its demons laugh from their inky thrones at the tragedy playing itself out beneath them. The people mutter, the nobles tear the worlds asunder for the right to rule, the Guilds grow ever bolder, and even, yea, I shall dare speak it!, many of mine own ecclesiastical brethren, in hubris or folly or quiet despair, turn ever away from the Prophet's wisdom, seeking desperate solace in dubious inner (or outer?) whispers.
The Avestites rage and damn and burn; the Eskatonics lose themselves in their erstwhile inner luminance; the Heyschasts cloister themselves in all manner of secret crannies, while the Amaltheans blind themselves to the evil without by submerging their cares in the pursuit of works they deem good. I am none of these; I am but a country bishop, raised according to my mother's Omega Gospels and the wisdom of the Orthodox creed; and so I say, "Teach." By the works that invigorate, by the litanies that inspire, by the texts that inform, let the Church illumine the Celestial Sun in the souls of the masses, lest in despair they turn to others all too eager to offer seductive substitutes.
Certes the Guilds readily uphold all manner of false idols, that they might profit thereby. Their god, to which all too many of Urth have flocked, is that dubious deity named Technology; his servants stalk slyly among the people of Terra, lulling them into inaction and iniquity. For the Orthodox Litany the priests of this god substitute the mumblings of physics and the subliminal cabalisms of mathematics deriding our species as insignificant. To replace the divinely inspired works of the Holy Church they offer a potpourri of strange engines, all the while promising us bizarre and questionable powers. And in place of the Eight Virtues these acolytes would offer us the very idleness and hubris that brought down the godless Second Republic.
Nor are these vices the greatest danger offered us by the Guilds and their works. At its worst, technology can blot out the soul-light as readily as any demon, and it is well documented in various ecclesiastical tomes (see The Journal of the Vorili, Expostulations of Kantos, etc.) that certain cunning demons actually disguise themselves as the products, rather than the progenitors, of occult science. Certes those amoral enough to seek wrongful dominance over their fellows care little whether the source of such dominance comes from Light or Shadow. The Church, as Palamedes preached in the Pentateuch Sermons, is the only source of light; and thus it follows that ultimately the products of technology are synonymous with Shadow, designed to enslave the weak and seduce the strong.
And so I offer this grimoire to describe and categorize technology's manifold manifestations, even as a work of medicament enables the practitioner to identify, diagnose and cast out more visceral illnesses. Let this work serve as a lesson, as most books do, and as a warning of sorts. Recorded herein are my own unworthy observations, as well as a commonplace smattering of erudite lore, dread superstition and various snippets in between. Let this mosaic of diversity coalesce in the reader's brain to a single pattern; just as the Pancreator has woven a wondrous tapestry out of a myriad disparate elements, let his servant convey an unadulterated message from a multitude of media.
For, despite the admonitory tone of this work, I wish it known that I adhere not to the Avestites' injunctions. All humans, be they Reeve or Scraver or even warlock, can be reforged in the Pancreator's Holy Flame. If this work, this codex, this divinely inspired labor should lead one penitent back to the way of the Celestial Sun, then I shall ascend to the Empyrean happily.
Herein I have recorded both my own unworthy observations and a compendium of lore gleaned from sources holy and profane alike. I have occasionally inserted parenthetical notes as well, lest the reader grow beguiled by the poisonous words of a heretical work whose text I cite solely to serve as an example and warning to the reader, much as the scarlet genital pouch of the Ul-Vathi tree-gulper serves as a banner repelling the wary traveler from its venomous hide.
And so now let the reader turn the page, and may the Empyrean wed my thoughts and pen. Let this work come not into the hands of those for whom it would serve as merest titillation or temptation toward further study of the very arts I adjure. Let those who would ignorantly descend into darkness stray from the left-hand path, and let the godly grow wiser in the ways of evil, that they may more readily purge it from our midst.
