"Ask not what sins that you know of which; beg me not mercy for it is not I who unmakes you, but your own folly that shall bring ruin to Effinitia.
Lo now, for your hubris!
How your silver stars fall from the sky, and gaze upon what you have wrought.
Magic is not yours to master, you were merely granted oversight at a higher lord's command.
Now you shall be its victim, as did you to the Helmse, and Westman, and the Mahadrum, and the Arcticonians, and the Belissarians, and numerous other oppressed peoples who fell under your iron rule.
How confidently you waved your rods and wands before them, compelled them under powers of mind and Aether to your will.
But for your arrogance shall you be a leper.
Behold the Black Curse: your silver skin turned pitch, eyes boiling, ears bleeding, mind screaming, your very magics transmuted to disease!
And only now in your post-hour of need do you call to me- pray to me, clinging to the phantoms of my feet carved into idols to beg salvation from the consequence of your mistake.
I have heard your prayers, Archons, and I have measured you short of reclamation.
You shall be an example to all mages that shall proceed you; look what happens to those who mistake tolerance for weakness and know what becomes of one who challenges divine order.
Death be on you mortals who would endeavor to master magic, for I alone am its master, and not you."