The Last Expedition of Ixir Zi

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Translator: Aun Laokhe

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Translated Name: The Last Expedition of Ixir Zi

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Translated Author: Translator, Aun Laokhe

Pages: 9

Translated Text:

The War of Hate stretches onward drawing the world to a frozen end. We, sisters, look now to others sent from afar to shelter our lives and see our teachings survive, but there is no solace to be found within the halls of the ignorant. So thirteen sisters shall move outside the skein of fate. We shall tear the fabric of the world and weave our own tapestry. Within the halls of our Temples shall we be sealed.

The souls of the unwilling shall be fettered to ever serve as thralls to our desires. Willing shall be brought once again to the halls of their Mistresses and there the sacred rites be performed. Our servants shall endure until the time when the Sleepers awaken and call across the seas of gold and sapphire. Then shall our sister-kin return and ransom our souls and bodies from the torpid state of unlife.

Safe, shall we keep the greatest secrets of our art. Veiled secrets will die as our breath dies out never to be seen until the singers, calling to the Great Beings of the deep, raise their voices again. Then shall our hosts rise and twist free of our self-imposed prisons. The crush of time shall not weaken our bones nor strip free our flesh, nor allow maggots into our minds. We will sleep, but we shall endure.

We, the first among the highest host, shall rise again. One last expedition to the world of our children, the Fiazhat, once more to perfect the merging of the Willing and the life's breath of our children. We shall not meet with failure again.

Our children are dying. In their place, malignant fiends of the swamp with tattered flesh and pernicious grins hold vigil over the temples built in our honor. The betrayal of 'they who covet the breeze-talkers' is complete at last. Our children, the Fiazhat, nearly gone from their world. No pity. Our task is clear.

Millennia have not altered their faith in their gods. They come to us for wisdom and we harvest their strongest for our own purpose. They have not forgotten the ways and gladly send their warriors to live amongst the gods. Our children will cease to exist on their world but find purpose when merged with the Willing.

Four times the sun that warms this world has passed, and we have watched atrocity from the shadows it casts. Our children suffer, as do their adversaries. The War of Hate it seems stretches to all corners of the vast beyond. So long before we gifted this world with magic, and now we find that the magic we meant for our children has been used against them.

Bloated, gluttonous, monstrosities devour the streams of the World's Blood and lead the War of Hate upon the Fiazhat.

Upon our return we shall crush the tunnels that join our world to this one. Ever more shall we forsake the Fiazhat and allow the blasphemy that 'they who covet the breeze-talkers' have enabled. We shall claim as many warriors as can be found. We require guardians in our slumber and the Fiazhat will not survive here. Better they live on through the Willing in eternal service and guardianship to their gods.