I long to smell the scent of fresh oil paint and linen canvases, with a whiff of spring rain on dry soil floating lightly above the mix. I want to feel the bristles of my brush caressing the canvas, to watch another realm reveal itself by my hand—a realm of reflection, wonder, and truth. Truth can be harsh, beautiful, painful, even disturbing. But it is my truth. A truth without words or the need for explanation, reaching out to find the one soul who resonates with it.

Lesson II
Do you know why you return to this house of worship night after night?
What is it you seek? Absolution? Redemption?

The old book no longer serves you—and be honest, it never truly did.
It was never about the book, or faith, or the divine. That was always a facade.
So why return now?

They've robbed me. They've stolen half of me—and the world I loved, enjoyed, cried in, and lived in. They took away that beautiful dance between light and darkness. The eternal circle of life and death—forever broken.

They told me I was Toreador. That I belonged to the clan of artists, of beauty, of passion. It was a gift, they said. This new world of mystery, of shadows, and of opportunity to create a legacy of my own. Did they really expect me to be grateful for handing me this "gift" wrapped in golden paper? It is still just half of what once was whole.

The gardens where the dead rest in hallowed grounds—where their monuments remind us of our mortality, and where new life slowly overgrows and crumbles the markers made of marble. As a young child, I always felt drawn to these places, and at the same time, I was terrified that at night these peaceful grounds of remembrance would turn into something sinister. I felt that the silence held something more than just peace—something otherworldly, though I could never quite name it.

A whisper from the shadows. Perhaps an elder Lasombra guiding her childe. Perhaps the Beast itself, speaking with a love that does not flinch from darkness. A voice shaped by instinct, power, and truth