Diary of S.V.Rook Dated 4th May 1893
Three became...
One.
The Pure Light of Play, a title tidy enough to be suspicious, its true name lost, has been mislaid by the centuries, or more likely smothered in the confusion that followed Ruin’s theft of Sahl. I cannot help noticing how often history becomes vague precisely at the moments when clarity would be most inconvenient.
I have searched for it's true name everywhere: in cracked tablets, in songs that trace back through time, and in the bizarre rituals of those scattered peoples who still speak of Myrth as though play were a matter of devotion rather than indulgence. The jungle, however, has been an unenthusiastic partner in this research. Dense, damp, and determined to remind me daily that scholarship was not meant to be conducted beneath a canopy of insects. I confess to missing England acutely at such moments; even the fogs of London seem radiantly merciful by comparison, and above all, Elizabeth’s absence presses more heavily here, in a world so thoroughly alien to me.
The nature of this Light resists every attempt at tidy explanation. It is described as singular, yet never simple. Elusive, yes, though perhaps deliberately so, as if it were less a thing than a condition, or a movement that refuses to be pinned. Still, all sources, no matter how degraded, agree on one point: it was composed of a perfect balance of Veyja, Rushi, and Sahl. The image of the three lights resolving into one feels almost childishly obvious, like primary colours becoming white; and yet, irritatingly, it persists.
From what I can gather through translation and the testimony of the remaining devotees, humans and the Pure Light are not to be understood as separate objects, but as elements of action, participants in expression itself. This should not surprise me; play, after all, is never passive. Still, the texts insist upon this with a fervour that suggests something more is at stake.
I grow impatient with the vagueness of it all. If the legends are to be believed and one may truly cultivate the Pure Light within oneself and come to embody something of Myrth’s power, then I require more than riddles and damp footnotes. Elizabeth deserves a man who has done more than speculate, and I am growing weary of both speculation and jungle alike. Knowledge alone may not make me worthy, but it is the only tool I have brought with me, and I intend to use it until something, at last, something rings true.