No one remembers who I am anymore. No one remembers my purpose and my life. I once was home to singing rivers, whispering forests, and strong mountains. I had faithful children and to them I gave my life. They become majestic beasts who roamed my lands, mythical creatures who swam my seas, and beautiful wings who flew through my skies. Those days are long gone and their existences are replaced by mere myths and legends: stories that have been warped so far from the truth that they might as well die. The usurpers spread lies about me and destroyed me.
I am Vasadori, and my history is hope. I liken myself to an onion, for each layer of story can only inspire an exponential growth of tears. It is no wonder that few search my depths, but I remember. I remember my beginning. If I still had a voice, I would tell you of the wonders of the Birth and the glories of the Rise. I would tell of you of the Twelve Kingdoms and of the Blessed Ones. But they forced my voice to silence and now they cannot find it again. They cannot hear my groaning and my pain. They cannot hear my children crying in their graves.
But my children will not be in pain forever.
"For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God."
