Jexki Ki's Journal

Pre-Translation Name:

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Translator: Aun Laokhe

Translator Speech:

Translated Name: Jexki Ki's Journal

Translated Description:

Translated Author: Translator, Aun Laokhe

Pages: 7

Translated Text:

Cold stings the bones and tires flesh. In sorrow we have marched, watched the land turned icy, our masters laid low beneath the hands of their brethren, we their servants wait in the wastes; alone. She has called sisters from near, afar and betwixt the ever watchful eyes of the fallen. Fallen who shed tears for the voices that call when leaves

are rustled, those forgotten and lost, wayward are all souls that cling to the edict from afar, whence we came. They who tread now in the cold yet feel not the bite of frozen wastes, safe within their alabaster towers, chanting to ill-lords whose roots strangle the life from the masters and further the cause of the growing darkness that consumes flesh, fire and sun. She calls sisters to swell her ranks and they answer with efficiency unmatched.

Drawn by promise of discovery, life beyond life, and death that mimics life. Gifts she has earned and pledged to teach. Ixir Zi, my Matron, my Mother, my boon. Within walls of basalt, entrenched in darkness, here call the voices of our race. Blood drawn from the Willing to fuel the floods, cascading blood that opens the well to new worlds where life teems in warm climes, yet untouched by the War of Hate.

Sisters! Come now to her. Come all to the seat of your world, wherein the warriors of death cannot find thee. Here at her bosom where all are touched by the Great One in the Deep. Let her wisdom fill thee and anoint thee with the blood of the sleepers. Let her gaze fall upon you and usher off the cold. Life shall be parted and death shall be scorned, eternity gifted and the crush of sand shall not grind your bones to dust. Nay,

touch of her flesh and drink of her blood and know the immortal gifts that she will offer. Let the twelve and she, gift you as were they. Through the divine Ixir Zi, shall our host survive through the War of Frozen Hate. Free of voices, free of those that stalk in shadowed hills and those who fell to whispers on the wind!

One final ritus, one final gift before we slumber as our lords, beneath the world, in temples of obsidian and blood. Darkness has churned the war against the shadow, the shadow has churned the war against the Darkness, and in their folly they have opened the way for Light.

Come, Sisters! Hear her raise her voice in song and know that she commands the gifts for one simple taste; then no death, no life, no breath shall claim thee ever more.