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.