Recorded conversation via sworn statement, identity redacted.
When all of humanity conspired to create debate, the possibility for factions of thought was born. In that moment, ideals were given more weight than swords, and words could kill as easily as arrows. Paper become the dart of the powerful, and knowledge the mark of the mighty. Praeceptor Caecus is the refinement of that idea into a perfect communication of intellect and purpose. The most artful assassin needs never raise his hand in violence, nor ever appear at the scene. There is a power and a beauty in the simplicity of pulling one delicate string and destroying the entire interlocking spider’s web of deceit and lies.
They are the ones who can go anywhere, take anything, and be whatever we need to be. It is about a fluid and changing idea that can only be felt, and never seen. Politics, faith, ideas and theatrics are all of our domain, and all can be played like music. You will learn this, never fear. The power of the wind will give you the insights that you need into the head of a man. You need only listen, and it will come. You can hear it already, but it confuses you. It is like listening to a wind-chime and trying to guess from the sound how many chimes hang from it. But you will learn. You will learn to dance, and to sing, and to play coy, and exactly when to hold your tongue and exactly when to speak precisely out of turn.
Praeceptor Caecus has no home base, and thus our organization is immune to assault. Our motives are as simple and as elegant as the wind which sails it along, and you need never wonder of the complexity of our purpose. We exist to make sure things flow the way they must; to direct the channel of that fluid through a tunnel of our design so that humanity and the Throne and all the other things we hold important thrive in exactly the manner that they should, and none more than is necessary. Our assassins create no noise, and no disturbance, delicately depriving their victim of air while waiting patiently below the currents of water where everyone knows no one can breathe. Our spies eavesdrop on conversations six locked doors and two hallways thence, even while hurrying the same information they learn along the winds to our relayers in the field. Our courtesans demand every bit the attention they deserve from exactly who they need to see them, and deftly glide into the center of everything, where the web believes itself strongest.
Never you worry. It all seems hazy and nebulous now. But things will clarify, and blow all that smoke away soon. For now, go out to the balcony, and listen to the wind-chime on the other side of the manor. Come back when you know how many chimes sing its chorus.