NOTARY: Nolcond v’Arxis, Acolyte to the Confessor of Hedion Monastery
Man has ever been fascinated by the allure of gold. Since our primitive and simple-minded origins, we have lusted after that which gleams in the firelight. Gold arrests the eye like nothing else - it makes a prisoner of the conscience, enslaving our interest to its vanity. Like the glistening stars of the night that once enraptured the gaze of our forefathers - driving them ever upward in their desire for ascendance to Heaven - so too are we enthralled by this simple colour.
And yet, it is utterly worthless. How can such a pointless, simple metal mean so much to us?
It is not mere wealth, nor a cynical metaphoric relationship with power that so imbues gold with its sacrosanct properties. No, gold is beautiful because it reflects the essence of divinity; its power and royalty is formless and without any mortal anchor to which we can append our delight in its gleam.
Gold is a representation of divine providence. It requires belief to have meaning to us. It is the very essence of heaven, the sacred lamb given unto us that we might uplift it to its rightful purpose - for just as God’s will is only made manifest through the service of Its servants, so too is gold rendered the most noble of all materiel by our exaltation.
Those who are most attuned to God present themselves in the colours of divinity (behold, the splendid sheen of the Amarrian Capsuleer) because they know that in so doing they have made of themselves a vessel for a higher purpose than their human form can comprehend. Such sacred metaphor is beyond the grasp of simple primitives - like the Minmatar, who bedeck themselves in gaudy hues of rust and bronze to reflect the dull decay within their souls, or the Caldari, who have doused their inner spirit and shrouded it in night so that they might better conceal their crimes against God from seraphic witness.
In the end, though, there is no greater proof of the cosmic link between the divine and gold than the nebulae of the Throne Worlds. As I look out from this observatory and gaze upon Domain, I know that it is the work of something greater than ourselves - that there are no coincidences so perfect and beautiful as this. God Itself has wreathed the Empire in a blanket of splendour, and none may question or doubt our conviction when this simple truth is understood.
Ours is the cloak of royalty.
Ours is the colour of God.
Ours is the crown.