Dead mist, quiet mist, river of the dead, I sail down your frozen waters in my golden ship, as I have done time and time again at the turning of the Wheel. Underneath your waves twists and bends the primordial serpent, singing, each time in a new, unfamiliar tongue. Each time I meet it for the first time, each time it etches a different rune in my mind.
Your black shores carry the scent of the Abyss, from which I myself spring. Long ago, at the hatching of the cosmic egg, I walked down that path, surrounded by my fellowmen, carrying the gift of Fire.
And I found you – unformed, layers and layers of ice and volcanic ash, moving, and the promise of a knowledge yet unknown, a story yet unwritten. I saw possibility and opportunity dancing in your unseeing eyes, I felt the kindling of my spinal flame, I rose to take my place as a tongue of Fire.
Of my fellowmen few still move. Some have melted away in the embrace of their dark mother. Some sleep underneath the ice, submerged in dreams most wonderful, from which they will never return. Some have taken their place among the gods – distant suns, spread across the majestic canvas of the Abyss. The rest suffer in the world of Man, carrying souls across your rivers.
And I have come to fulfil my promise – to melt your shell, to expose your gentle skin to the elements, and to stir you to life.
Sailing away to my mother-world, I have left a thread of knots.
They will lead you to me.