The Final Journal of Steakfilly

The Final Journal of Steakfilly is a book written by Farumīlān Steakfilly, the founder of the dead religion Triantanism. It was written in Rathnir, in an unknown time, most likely soon after the Rebellion of Prisma and Fairivon, and directly before the death of the author. It is the final message of Steakfilly before his death and the final Choronicle of Lithranor, which died with him. It is also the fulfillment of many prophecies of the religion, including The Prophecy of Lithranor and The Oath of Lithranor. It is the only work of literature by Steakfilly still easily accessible. It contains 3 Parts and an Epilogue written by an unknown author.

Part One
Steakfilly, after being subjected to a vision on mount Trigono that deeply humbles him, has a dream about a father leaving one son for another. Then he wakes up in a comfortable bedroom. He was saved by Scythe Yari, baron of Thera. He travels home over several days, and comes to Lithranor as they begin the construction of the Great Temple. In Lithranor he receives an urgent message from the duchess stating there was a Rebellion in Prisma, the Home City of his adoptive father, Abdoulla of Prisma. Trying to contact his father, he goes to Prisma, but is met with arrows. He then left for Jirn, and Lamented on the fact that his father would risk killing his own son to keep his almost completely abandoned city.

Part Two
Steakfilly recalls the months of preparation leading up to the battle, and his attempt to contact his father. He also states he didn't side for or against his father. When the day of the battle arrives, he fights for Anoshphey, but on the way to the battle he is knocked into a pit and is knocked unconscious.

Part Three
Steakfilly recalls a dream that happened after being knocked down in which his father kills himself, and the soul of Tonkorak leaves his body. Tonkorak travels up to Steakfilly, and questions him, mocks him, and tests him. Eventual he gives him the final question: "do you want to come with me?" which translates literally into Travelers Tongue as "do you want to free yourself with me by joining with me?". At that moment, all tempations come over him, and he chooses the right for the first time in his life, recalling the Oath of Lithranor. Clearly writing on his deathbed, he says tells the reader his greatest ability is to choose, no matter how great he is.

Epilogue
Written by an unknown recipient of the book (most likely a Throdhite because of name variation), the last paragraph gives an in depth definition of love, and the purest form, Qaoul, and defines Triantan as the person who is the source and giver of Qaoul. They state that Steakfilly, who lived a wicked life, chose to accept the love, and resides with Triantan. The author tells us that we should chose, sooner or later, for ourselves.

= The Final Journal of Steakfilly =

Part 1: (trading) a son for a son
When I stood atop the mountain awaiting blissful death to come upon me, a voice once more spoke into my ear, saying, “venesh, venesh, you are not the chosen one.” standforth and justly i was afraid of the voice i heard, for it was not soft like the voice i had heard so clear many years before in the old city of Lithranor. At that time I spoke the traveler's tongue not well, only my home tongue of Handlian, and Lithranorian I had picked up from my friends and neighbors. At this voice I realized that I was to die after I had completed my duty, to spread the love of Triantan across the world. I had traveled far, not knowing I did so not for a cure, but to prophesy; I did not travel to heal myself, but rather to heal the wounds of god, who had not been prophesied to the people of Rathnir and Eldham. The disease was simply a drive by which I should achieve the goal, and I only realized it then on the mountain slopes, that I was not important. I was not special by any comparison of men. I realized that in the view of god, no man on this earth was more or less important than another, and we are all simple grains of wheat in comparison to the tree of god, whose branches stretch for miles, and all grains, malted or not, are in sweetness a bitter distasteful and unripe meal in comparison to the luscious fruit that comes from the vine of god. And so I sat there, the frost nipped at my fingertips, the howl of the wind going past my snow-scarred face and up around the peak to deliver rain to the people below, and I wondered, why me? If I matter not in significance, why was I chosen to do the task? I now realize there is no reason for it to matter, that significance and fame, virtue and humbleness is pointless for choice in the eyes of Triantan, but then i did not know. I fretted day and night for the answer, i did not search for a prophecy, or to legitimize my own grace by which i believed i might have been chosen, but rather pondered the cracks and crevices in the logic of god, the nooks and crannies in Triantan’s reasoning. Eventually, my mortal calling caught up to me, and I fell asleep beneath a pine in the mountains of Erini, the middle of the world, the cradle of the Throdhites, whence my father came.

I had a dream that night that a father was grieving at the loss of his son, and sat next to him was his younger child, whom he cared less about. The father grieved for his son, and when the younger son tried to console his father, he pushed him off, and he ran with the body of his son, whom he was not supposed to take, to deny the death, to be happy longer, to deny acceptance of what had happened to him. The mistake he had made. And then dark sleep took me once again.

I awoke in a house I recognized; I laid in the spare bedroom of Scythe Yari of Thera. I had stayed here on and off throughout the existence of Old Lithranor and recognized the place quickly. I sat up, and was awestruck by the fact I had survived, I ran out of the house, yelling “Scythe! Scythe! Where are you?” Suddenly I heard the distant pitter-patter of horse galloping. It slowly got closer and I anticipated Scythe Yari, and I was correct. He came over the hill and at first I did not recognize him. His face had aged and bruised, even though he was a similar age to me. At this point it had been years since I had even seen Thera, and since then the land had healed significantly. Walls had been placed around the borders, grass and other flora thrived on the edges and in the cracks of the roads, out to the Mar in the north and the sea to the south. He stopped there in front of me and got off his horse, tied it up, and looked at me saying “i got you some potatoes! Figured you’d be hungry after bein’ in the mountains all night.” I chuckled to myself, grabbed the meal thankfully, and we walked into his home. Sitting at a table we talked about recent Rathnir politics, and caught up. Once we had both eaten, he set me off to Jirn with a horse. But just before I left, he handed me a copy of the Triantad. I kissed it and asked where he got it from, and he said it was in his drawer for some reason and he found it when we fled Old Lithranor. I took it, we said our goodbyes, and I left. Before heading south to the cities I headed west to the ruins of Lithranor. I crossed the channel, expecting ashes and destruction like I had seen before, but was surprised, pleasantly, but surprised nonetheless, that the area had been respected. What remained of the walls was left as a ruin, and I think it showed appreciation for the Lithranorians. After this, I forgave the Escharrians. I forgave them for what they had done.

I passed heading eastward through the gates of Thera, then headed across the mountains passing through Wolthis. Then I headed through Ashmore, and south from there. I went off the road southbound until I was at the Sea of Pearls, and followed the coast, me and my horse then passed through Berae, where I rested for the night. Then, the next morning I reached Jirn where I bought food and drank, then followed the road north-west to Lithranor where there was construction of the first buildings. Arriving there I kissed the ground and walked in to see the Lithranorians lifting stones and wooden beams and putting them into place, a job that is hard without horses or mules. If you came upon the city as a traveler you would know not of its history and assume only that it is a population expansion of prisma, or that it had been destroyed during a military campaign. But rather, as you might know, Lithranor was a refugee camp from Escharria, which changes a lot of the perspective for travelers to whom I have told the story.

After working to construct the buildings in New Lithranor for several weeks, we began work on the temple. And for another several months we worked on the temple, only completing a small portion of it.

In the following weeks I gathered money through selling literature so I could repay a debt I owed to my father, Abdoulla of Prisma, who had been found to be alive despite what the rumors said, and we had a happy reunion earlier that year. It was a thanksgiving to the land he had given me and the Lithranorians many years ago, and how gracious he and Mehtul had been to get rid of Alderrdeen. I had just completed the gathering of money, when suddenly a messenger came from Jirn with an urgent message. Many messages came from the capital, so for most I was not concerned. But for this I felt an urgency, a darkness, just as I had felt when Astyllea had collapsed, and when war broke out in the south. I opened it, as I was the only one near the road and was the person the messenger gave it to, and it read,

“Most Urgent of Messages

Shyàh Ahrìn Aesperii-Audalad

''Throughout the many years of the city of Prisma residing in our borders, they have time and time again been proved to have been untrustworthy. We have given them chances, and after they defied border laws and refused to fix the issue, they finally and sheepishly declared independence. All things they say of the governing body are lies and should not be taken seriously. We, the duchy of Anoshphey under the governance of Yimmu-Audal, and as a Protectorate of the Soleannen Imperium, declare war on the city of Prisma and all who ally with it.”''

It went on to list a series of events that led to the declaration.

I stood shocked, dumbfounded, confused. I took up my wits, and gave the letter to MickieBoj along with the original copy of the Triantad, I kissed it and said my goodbyes. From there I jumped onto my horse and rode swiftly to Prisma. A few minutes later, I arrived to see the doors locked. As i got closer, arrows were shot at me, one took tufts of hair off of my horse and scared him. We ran off, and redirected backwards, passing Lithranor already putting up defenses, and headed off to Jirn. Not even the son of Abdoulla was welcome in the city of Prisma.

Part 2: leaving a son behind
Over the next months Anoshphey and the Imperium prepared for war against the newly formed city states of Prisma and Farivon who were rebelling against the Imperium. My father led them. And I was stuck.

I left a message for him and he did not respond. I attempted to come to the gates again but I was turned away with arrows. For weeks I lie awake at night wondering if I should fight. If I should side with my father. If I should side with my nation. If I shouldn’t side at all. If I should stay or flee. If I should speak or stay silent.

Hence I did nothing. I did not side with my father or my nation. I didn’t not side at all however. I didn’t stay but I didn’t flee. I didn’t speak but I didn’t stay silent. I just went on as if nothing happened because it was my only option. For weeks during the war preparations I grew more restless. Finally, when, on the day I wrote this, the war was set to happen, I was made to go to Ersetu.

When the battle began, we ran towards the city of Prisma. But in the hustle, I was pushed and trampled, and eventually I was knocked into a pothole, where I fell unconscious.

Part 3: a recalling of the dream
I awoke above the worlds. I could see all realms, even beyond eldham, different lands unconnected from ours, some thriving, some in despair, but most in between. I heard again the voice of Triantan speaking a language I did not know, but I somehow understood. Almost as if it was a speech through both mouth and soul. I looked to Rathnir and saw smoke arise from Prisma. War. There i saw the top of the mountain. The highest point in Rathnir. And upon the top were the men of Prisma. They fought hard but were clearly losing against the large army of mercenaries that were hired by Anoshphey. My father was not with them. He was a coward. He had killed himself in the upper room of the brewery. From his body arose two spirits. One was his, shriveled and starved, but at its core good, but the other was a pompous and spoiled spirit. That of Tonkorak. it came to me and I thought that Triantan had left me. It was cold and damp. The air around me became humid and an odor of mint-smoke filled the space. It said, “you are the one who thought himself favored, are you not? You pitiful gerbel! If only that triangle-ass stuck to some level-heads he’d have won by now.” i replied, “why must you speak of him that way. I know you are of no empathy but what is the reason?” it moved back a few paces from me, and took a more human stance. It leaned against an invisible wall of some sort, crossed its arms, and became casual. It stated, “oh, so you’re holy now? I must have missed something from dealing with your idiot father. He always thought of you as annoying. ‘Twas quite funny actually.” it started pacing back and forth, and chuckled to himself, “a prophet son of an opposing religion? Ridiculous! He adopted you because the Jirnites wanted you in the family. A city like yours could help with tourism, you know.” it stopped and suddenly became menacing looking, almost as if it changed forms again, and my muscles tensed. It said, “listen now, this is your chance. The three-sided prick can’t listen to us, and this is where you can come to me. Do you want to come with me? I know you want to. Think of the future. The starce can do nothing to stop you.” i was froze.

I didn't know how to respond, when every temptation I had ever had came to me. Every sexual desire and failure, every time i had given in to folly, all times i had taken the hatred of the world onto others, it all came on to me. It felt as if a weight was set on my shoulders, a weight of every weight i had ever known, all with the knowledge that i was not holy, i was not specially selected by Triantan, and that god thought me equal to all other men in the world. All other men including my father. My father who had taken his city and fled selfishly. My father who had rejected me when I offered forgiveness, my father who had killed himself in the upper room of the brewery the night before. Aboulla of Prisma.

Long ago, in old Lithranor, MickieBoj and I swore to defend each other until one of us broke the oath. That oath has not been broken. I knew I would defend him when the moment of decision was nigh, and I did. That oath is sealed, my friend. If you read this, keep that knowledge close to heart.

Whoever has read this, the difference between you and a wicked one is simple. It is not a lack of being evil, which no one has. It is not a deprivation of empathy, which can be realized and helped. It is not the wicked’s lack of an oath to a friend, which may not be true. It is the courage of steadfastness. It is the ability to attempt. I now feel ill, so i will stop writing, farewell, safe travels. Praise be to Triantan. Oras at deitanx! The Great City awaits me.

Epilogue
People live bad lives, and those who consider themselves the highest are most low, even in the presence of god. Even the holiest fall worse than a man of the brothel on Inveakdag. I myself don't know how to live for certainty. But a life seeking a return is not it. Wanting something for doing something. Love is real. Love, according to this man, is Trintaden himself. But I think we’ve got it wrong. To sacrifice your life isn’t enough love. Giving yourself up isn't the purest sacrifice. Nothing is so close to truest love as the action of defying any pleasure. Love is self surrender to one for their sake. Love is complete patience even if they were to murder you or one you love as equal. Love is the complete deprivation of pleasure. Love is not just giving. It isn't just sacrifice. Love is denying oneself so much that your sense of self simply ceases to exist. A sort of “second-hand selfishness”. Pure love is impossible for humanity. Love is impossible to imagine. Love isn't for someone. It is someone. When you truly love someone you make yourself part of them, while at the same time ceasing to exist. The total lack of any care or acknowledgment of your existence. And love doesnt get anything in return, not even a good feeling. This man didn't do that. No one will. But he was right in saying Trintaden was love. The love called Qaoul. That is why the man who ordered the destruction of Lithranor is in the same room as Cruine. Anyone who accepts this love, no matter if they give nothing back, are given all of these from god. Steakfilly did not spread the message well. Not as well as a wicked man could do. He in fact did it poorly. But Trintaden chose him because he loved him. Not more than others, or less. Steakfilly is not wicked anymore. He is in the residence of Trintaden. He is accepting. Many others are too. And many others will be too. You can choose now if you wish. Or wait till later. Trintaden is patient.