Addendum-F

If you are reading this, it is already too late.

There are four gods that stand above all others, two pairs. Life and Death rule over the Badlands as the White King and the Red Death. But there was also the sun and the moon. Long ago, they went to war and the sun won, stripping the moon of face and eyes and name. The Sun became Ewachol, who rules over the liches. The Moon...without its shining face, it became nothing but Night itself. Old Night. And he is listening.

If you are reading this, then he is listening to your thoughts and it is already too late. Do not acknowledge him further; that'll just make it worse.

The Old Night is the foremost of prisoners in the Badlands, trapped there long before Ewachol came down to slaughter the upstart gods. Right before the final challenge, we traveled into the Obsidian Mirror and found the dripping oubliette that he calls home. Even bound, blind and half-dead, his power is on par with the White King. Though, while the White King was almost human, the Old Night was...different. Different than anything else I have encountered.

The Old Night is many things, most of them deeply, deeply horrible. But at the core of his self is Love. A deep, unyielding Love for mortals. His fascination with our thoughts, our passions, is without end. Sometimes, to my horror, I find that care of his admirable. This does not mean, however, that he is harmless. He is not like the others. He will not tear or flense or obliterate. Instead, he will simply Keep you. Forever. Undying and unstable, being ripped apart and reformed. Because he Loves you, like a child loves a fly after he's pulled the wings off.

He is the one responsible for our presence. Some years before the expedition, he claimed the soul of Tavor, one of his priests and Havart's lover. He then dared Havart to come and rescue him, leading him to sponsor the expedition. He was the true goal of Lleuadu, who plotted to steal his corpse using Maggie's powers and claim it and its power for himself. Both were fools. We never came close to rescuing Tavor. And Lleuadu, well, he found out that the Moon does not bargain. Rather, the Moon gives gifts.

We all accepted his gifts. We had no choice. When Lleuadu sacrificed Maggie, Old Night scooped her soul up and gave it to me, taking Lleuadu instead. He destroyed Barchant and Thale with a thought and then brought them back at our behest. When Quinn died in Div, which he dreams even now, he gave her life back and returned Viirdang's soul on the request of Nero and Devlin. In every encounter we had with him, even as he gleefully shaved an inch off our sanity, he offered his help gladly and without return.

Only later did we realize exactly how powerful he was. That anybody who accepted his gifts would be bound to the Badlands, destined to join him upon dying and becoming part of his endless series of horrors. For this, we were willing to bargain with the White King, and for this, I was forced to do a favor for the nameless moon: writing the letter that would eventually be sent to Havart, telling him of Tavor and setting off the chain of events again. For Old Night is not bound by time. He is listening. It is already too late.

He took interest in me. He recognized my fury, my passion, my love, and he took interest in me. That is why, in part, I limit myself to working from the shadows. Being interesting means getting Old Night's attention, and to have his claws in my soul again is beyond consideration. Even now, I wonder if Ademar, his high priest, still walks the earth. If the quiet shadow mage would reappear to whisk me back to the Badlands. And so I have bad dreams.

Think carefully. It is already too late.