Present oblations, for the splendid: She who set Hortator in his fate to the Lady’s Home, worshipped with gifts and homage where they pour libations! Honour her feet for reverence in our houses. Hear now, how she was born before born, and set the wheel to spinning.
Verily wondrous is the tender youngling's growth who ne’r will draweth nigh to drink her mother's milk.
As soon as she who hath no udder but darkness bore her, she, faring on starlight, great errand, will suddenly grow strong.
“Here is one light for thee, another yonder in time: enter the third and, be therewith united.” Spake Boethiah, Queen of Shadows.
“Beautiful be thy union with the body, cloaked in dirt, beloved in the sublimest birthplace, A death-jaw of Stones and Fire, Mount Assarnibibi!”
For Scarab, worthy of our praise, the frame-maker understood this eulogy as 'twere a homily; For good, in this assembly, and formed the body-image of Almalexia, not yet imbued with the Pregnant Darkness.
“Let her not, in our friendship, Molag, suffer harm!” Said the Shadow to the Schemer.
And the Stone-Fire blazed, born-in-curse of Order, the Master of imprisonment, the slave-taker rose around the image of Ayem and spoke.
“You have generated a vessel fit for our mouths. Let us devour your offspring. The pleasure of annihilation is the pleasure of disappearing into the unreal. All those that would challenge the sleeping world will seek membership in this movement.”
But The Dark Warrior Summoned a hoard of her lovers to stick in the gullet of the Varliance Devourer, saying “I denounce the alienation of the Cloven Duality with a hammer.”
Even as the lava crested from the mountain ridges, like saliva set to dissolve Ayem’s form, so sprang the 99 Lovers, through lauds, Concubines of Violence to make the Red Wives weep.
To Bal’s hymns and eulogies, as Hoary Maybe hastened, bearing him, the lovers drove the song to battle.
Winning to effectual sacrificers, Molag Bal, invested with his weeping colours, released his pain, which through the lovers became a vital seed, and struke the image of Ayem and gave it life.
The King whose face is decked with cries and kindled with cruelties offered by his unwillingness a seven syllable spell: AYEM AE SEHTI AE VEHK
Thus Spoken, The Bent King withdrew with his lofty banner and loudly bellowed “I will exact upon this incarnate a corruption more terrible than word or sword can endure! So terrible shall be my gift, it shall bend trauma back upon itself!”
Then he fled from the sky's farthest limit: to a dark corner of a darker house, where Jone hath waxen in the waters' bosom, yet whose light never touches.
From the seven fire-sticks left by his broken mouth, the lovers engendered with thoughts, urged by the hands, the glorious Pregnant Image of Almalexia,
Far-seen, with pointed flame, Mother of Morrowind.