"Behold! Gates long closed, opened by blood.

Behold! I have brought you to sanctity.

In your new freedom you shall see beyond

the coil that is one world. Yea, you shall

see the spinning world for its infirmity

and touch the fruit of other worlds,

where the Masters have yet to fall into war.

Behold! I bring salvation through our blood,

and of our blood I shall bring the cleansing

to the worlds where -we- are Gods. Sisters, behold!"

With this she opens wide her arms and carves

the symbol of ether into her left forearm

the symbol of life etched into the upper half,

then with swift and gentle motions the blade

spins to her left hand and she carves,

the softest flesh from her body and feeds

a consort, bound upon the offering place.

His lips go crimson as life flows

into his throat to slake a thirst,

not his own desire but hers, growing within

his stomach; the blade traces the mark

of foretelling across the flesh

of her right forearm, and then the mark

of distance upon the upper arm.

Blood flows and fills the cups, the twelve close

and take their place as she hoists the blade of Writhing Fury.

The blade is then drawn to his midsection,

once there a tremor causes

his lips to quiver and his voice to tremble,

she sings the perfect note and the Eyes open.

The blade slips cleanly into his middle,

severs the organ that lets all scream and breathe,

draws sinew and bone apart exposing a heart

still beating.

His eyes shudder and he speaks,

but his voice is drowned by the chorale

of the twelve singers. The Eyes draw near and sup

on his flesh, his blood, all that he was

until nothing of what was him remains.

Then the way is opened and twelve sisters,

lead by she who is highest amongst them,

walk to new worlds to bring the love

of the Eyes. To bring back sustenance

in this time of wicked cold

and chase ignorance from their surfaces.

So has this been. So shall I one day

 walk to worlds aside from this.

Dark haze spun for three days, spilling no sign

of our beloved Mother or the twelve sisters who walked with her

through the tunnel of murk and lightning.

For we, the sisters who remained ever vigil,

the matter was rife with loss. Eight in all

had been given to the sleepers, eight in all

had been consumed to keep the gate open, eight

had lost their consorts for the greater good.

A thundercrack split the air, swirls of violet split

through the grey dusk of the tunnel and the churn

of the device ceased. Through the tunnel she came, ebony

eyes aware and seeking, behind her the twelve

and six forms that came on scaled bellies,

slithering and swaying.

Scrawny arms ended in claws like the kukri,

hot breath and the smell of bile permeated the air,

eyes set deep into flesh-hooded skulls twitched nervously,

tongues, thin and forked, darted from between a thin crack

of a mouth. No weapons, bore the captives, no signs

of war or hate, on scaled bellies they crawled to us,

bowed their flesh-hooded heads and there, prostrate before us,

begged in language foreign and vile to serve the will

of the Gods.

Ixir Zi! Be praised by the Sleepers, let our voices raise

as one to praise your name.

"A price of blood shall be paid for the glory of the First!

We, greatest amongst the vigilant, host of the highest,

servants to none and masters of the Nuanni*;

(* This is the Tonk name for the spirits of the ones who came before. Lord Asheron has called them Gromnatross.)

shall see the tide of victory turned against the denizens

of the deep dark. Our ranks shall grow,

filled with the ranks of impotent

consorts who give of themselves, to join with the

Fiazhat, serpents of the Sleepers. Spill blood for your race,

that it may survive, flay flesh for your sister-mother

that she may nurture. Cull the weakest of your herd, sisters.

The sterile male holds no more use, so he shall be carved,

ensorcelled and given life eternal, servants ever more to our

race."

The proclamation made, she turned within and drew

with her the hope of our kind. Twelve sisters and she had

found their way across the sea of heavens; there, upon a world

of bile, mire and swale they had found a deliverance.

The infirmed and decrepit males, incapable of husbandry,

would give their lives to be amongst us for all time.

The kukri moved quickly beneath the scales,

The sacrifice lived still. Its words had been deciphered

some time prior, and now as it lay

flesh opened to musculature, scales peeled away from flesh

in delicate rows, eyes darting wildly,

it begged and pleaded to know why.

Why had the Gods seen fit to punish?

What transgression had it brought into their Palace

to cause it such suffering?

The kukri stripped flesh away leaving blood, muscle

and the living organs.

A need for alacrity arose,

death closed on the fleshless Fiazhat,

unconscious now but for the awareness of its

inevitable demise, talons stretching time and again

grasping at air and begging in hushed muted tone

for absolution from the Gods met with deaf ears.

"No Gods are we, child of another sun.

No Gods so cruel or selfish in attention,

would answer your pleas with such remorseless

and cruel intent. You shall not rest, nor know

death. You shall be unlike any that this world has known;

an army bred from the army of the First.

Darkness shall yield once again to the sisters sent

to control it at the dawn of all there is.

You shall be that army, one life given across twenty;

One life shared amongst many to safeguard the lives of hundreds,

part of a race of thousands, sent from the bosom of one."

Her smile, somehow cruel and gentle in the same turn of the lips,

pressed against the exposed muscle of the Fiazhat,

no strength within the bloodied beast to whimper,

its now lidless eyes went grey from black; not dead,

slumbering it seemed as pain o'erwhelmed its frame.

One life shared amongst many to safeguard the lives of hundreds,

part of a race of thousands, sent from the bosom of one."

Her smile, somehow cruel and gentle in the same turn of the lips,

pressed against the exposed muscle of the Fiazhat,

no strength within the bloodied beast to whimper,

its now lidless eyes went grey from black; not dead,

slumbering it seemed as pain o'erwhelmed its frame.

Twenty barren, infertile males, whose purpose was long used,

lay on slabs of stone. Runnels, scrubbed dry and clean,

waited eagerly to taste the precious life that would be let.

Absolved of their duties, children and mistresses,

the Willing lay in wait.

Calling to the sleepers, life begets life.

A chorus of voices, the twelve and my Mother,

sing to Slithayr

The sickle splits the flesh of the willing

flaying wide their forms. Flesh of the sacrifice mixed

within the Willing, the chorus calls for the wells

to spill the world's blood into the wounds of the Willing.

Liquid hot, the blood boils from the mouths of the singers,

incantations form the power of the sleepers into tangible

gifts that fused the flesh of the sacrifice with the Willing,

wounds begin to close as the hearts of the Willing are snatched

by unseen hands, lifted above the Willing,

still living, watching and praying with the sisters.

A scream of agony is drowned by the songs

of my sister-Mother and the twelve.

The spirit of the sacrifice rips in half,

splinters tear into ten screaming shards.

Shards seek the hearts of the Willing and plunge within.

Black bile, blood and sinew spill into the hungry runnels

of the offering slabs.

Hearts, plunged back within closing chests,

beat with a new furor. The change begins at once.

Scales cover the faces of the Willing, their forms twist

and bones break, twist audibly as the flesh contorts around

bone newly bent and grown. Hoods of flesh surround scaled faces

and the eyes of the Willing become obsidian and withdrawn,

coherent and obedient.

"Rise, thrall-kin. Serve well your masters.

You shall be taught again the Rites of you Mothers.

You shall call me highest amongst them, I, Ixir Zi.

I have culled you, once chattel, and crafted you anew.

You are my servants, servants to my sisters,

servants of the Falatacot, first amongst the highest host;

undying, obedient, and perfect, sclavi*.

*(There is no word in Tonk for what this means. It appears to be

some form of ultimate perhaps, but explains where the name Sclavus

is born.)

Rise, thrall-kin and serve!"