We are not gods. We are mortals. Our lot in this short life is to perish peacefully.
Since the birth of the first people, divine intervention has afflicted the bloodlines. Some more gifted than others, destined to rule and conquer, they usher in violent ages of savagery and massacre. Unification of nations by the sword, of scattered tribes and unruled provinces. Expansion-seeking consciousnesses are mere blips in the vast continuum of time beyond ages where the written word has wrecked havoc. We protect the silence. Because it is language that brings about war. Inspiration leads to murder, writers upend social order. Blood spills where no restraints are put to the gushing flow of thought.
The Order of the Reapers is the necessary balancing power. For the stability of society to prevail, expansive minds must be ended. And before you even think it, rebellious reader, I snuff your thought from its root. We are not arms of the state enforcing established rule. The order exists because it must exist. Because without cloak and scythe, there is only chaos and bloodshed.
We are beholden only to a mission that has spanned generations since the first-born. We are keepers of their secrets, their scrolls and their scribblings. There will never again be a society where the Language of Creation is allowed to flood our nations.
