A wind of change stirs the branches of the black pine, playing prelude
to a dark season, a cold season: winter. As is our tradition, only the
strong shall be left living to contend with the icy claws that pierce
through flesh and bone. The weak shall be flensed from our ranks and
cast out into the world, no signal fire lit for them to return, no smoke
trails to guide them back home.

This winter and forever after, only the strong shall stride the planks
of the village in the trees. Only those free of unnatural bonds to
mutant forces of destruction and chaos shall be dubbed as truly strong.
The Black Pine has no place for petty illusions or the fallacies of a
power gone awry. No child of the phenomenon of magick may call
themselves strong and be welcomed within our pack. No villager shall be
allowed to take a mate from the tainted pool of magickal blood. Our
bloodlines shall not be warped and polluted by the malignancy that is
the art. The children would only serve to fatten the wolves or fellow
villagers, thus eliminating all hope of prolonging the line.

The season of culling has begun, may the strong survive.
-Kabal Brynja, Wildgraf.

Penned by my hand on the 8th of Letum, in the year 466 AD.