@Staticness
Gonna try something. Please tell me if you wake up with your hair falling out or a flock of vultures descends upon your home or your mother gets fucked by a big scary man.
@Staticness, तेरा रक्त मैं लिखता हूँ, तेरी आत्मा मैं बाँधता हूँ। काल की इस घड़ी में, महाकाल की साक्षी में, तेरा स्व-धर्म तुझसे छिन जाए। तू पितरों का हत्यारा बने, कुल-देवता का त्यागी बने। जो तेरा धर्म था, वह तेरा पाप बने। यह मेरी इच्छा नहीं, काल का आदेश है। तू अपने धर्म का त्याग कर।
Please do the needful and update me on what will befall you.
BROTHER NO! We cannot dirty our thoughts with their filthy mongrel language.
This path commences the journey toward damnation! For it is a disgusting, wicked, foul abomination of all that’s good and right in the world.
The sheer sight of it, is offensive to my eyes, as mongrel speak is harmful to the soul.
I shall rectify this, for you know not what you do.
Behold.
The Peterborough Chronicle (also called the Laud manuscript)
It is written in old English(Anglo-Saxon) The entries were produced by monks at Peterborough Abbey.
1121-1154 AD
These are some of the earliest documents describing Britain in the early AD time period.
This is the opening page
This page shall serve as a defacto palette cleanse.
Let the beauty of proper written language envelope you. The elegance, the grace. The true born language of a land that is
OUR BIRTHRIGHT.
Etched in the stark beauty of an unforgiving landscape, our Anglo Saxon heritage, and native written language, captures a profound ache for belonging, where the warmth of the mead hall serves as a flickering candle against the vast, icy shadows of fate. It is a literature of melancholy and fierce loyalty, weaving together the salt spray of the sea and the quiet grief of the exile into a haunting song about the fleeting nature of all earthly things.
These things are not known to mongrels, their horrid presence befouls our earth, and defies our stewardship of it.
I will insert the current English translation of page 284
“As you are sitting with your ealdormen and thegns about you, the fire blazing in the centre, and the whole hall cheered by its warmth,-and while storms of rain and snow are raging without,— a little sparrow flies in at one door, roams around our festive meeting, and passes out at some other entrance. While it is among us it feels not the wintry tempest. It enjoys the short comfort and serenity of its transient stay ; but then, plunging into the winter from which it had flown, it disappears from our eyes. Such is here the life of man.”
