The Songs of Ifen

We have lost the war.

Our people, once bathed in order, touched by divine light—something we shall never again possess. We, the abandoned children, cursed by the will of our God and our own brethren… The battle we fought so fiercely, in which we stood among the endless ranks of the legions, sacrificing ourselves for every advance, for every yard taken… Now, it is all gone. All of it has been cast into dust.

We were not prepared for that—entropy. The true manifestation of the random, the chaotic, the unthinkable. The essence that germinated in the womb of the world, mother of the Abyssals—Abis—the accursed seed of chaos that never ceases to bear its fruits. And her forced consort, the very god of randomness, of catastrophe, and of all that cannot be bound by law: Dooroma.

Now, our actions force us to remember the tragedies of our past—our roles, earned through bravery, through devotion to order, through the principles that guided us to this cursed moment. In the end, our order was cut down, our brothers fled, and we—abandoned—fell into infinite corruption against our own will.

We were blamed for their failures. We were blamed for the fall of the Winged Fortress. We—the vanguard, the very pillar of the invasion into the Abyss—everything was cast into the crimson fire, diminished by the incompetence and weakness of others.

Now we have fallen—fallen into the depths of a dead world, into a plane abandoned by history. Our wings have lost their metallic sheen. Our crests no longer bear the weight of our legions. Our purity has been buried alongside our brothers-in-arms… Yet our vengeance endures. Our virtues still sustain us.

Remember this day—never forget this day. For this was the day the winged fell, when pure wings were stained. When beauty was defiled. And yet we—the renegades of order—do not accept defeat.

The war against chaos—and against the weak god—has only just begun.