Laughter, thin and eerie, passed th

Laughter, thin and eerie, passed through the wretches, like the lash through the whip, one rising from the trailing of another.

The Great Prince cast his gaze beyond them, toward the gold-girdered walls. He saw hooded light rising across faraway structures, surfaces gleaming through darkness, stamped with infinite detail, packed into inexplicable forms. A sudden awareness of distance and dimension struck him...

Dizzy, gaping spaces.

He fell to his right elbow, so sudden was the vertigo. They floated, he realized. The ancient amputees had been arrayed across a platform of some kind–one rendered of the same unearthly metal as the Ark. He saw golden reliefs through the scuffs in the offal beneath him, warring figures, leering and inhuman. And the form, opposing S’s hooked about the arms of a V...

A shape no Son of the House Anasûrimbor could fail to recognize: the Shield of Sil.

They floated upward through some kind of shaft, one impossibly vast, a gullet broad enough to house the King-Temple whole. The Horns, Nau-Cayûti realized, remembering the tales told by the Nonmen, who had ransacked this place at the conclusion of their grievous war...

“A marvel...” one of the wretches croaked, a momentary light flaring and fading in his eyes.

“Is it not?”

They ascended what Siqu called the Toir’inskiri, the Grave-with-no-bottom...

“The Iyisku...”

“They made this...”

“To be their...”

“Sssshurrogate world...”

The vast well that plumbed Golgotterath’s Northern Horn.

“Now... now...”

“It belongs to me...”

They climbed to the world’s most wicked summit, where none but the dead and the damned descended.

“The very...”

“Stronghold...”

“Of ssssalvation!”

Rage, delirious and titanic, seized the old Wizard’s limbs and voice. He howled. He cast his naked body whole, wrenched and heaved with the strength and fury that had made him unconquerable on so many fields of battle.

But the Wretches only drooled and laughed, one after the other.

“Nau-Cayûti...”

He drew his feet beneath him, squatted, strained roaring, until his limbs flushed and quivered. He hurled all his being...

“Thief...”

The iron links creaked, but did not yield.

“You hath returned...”

“To the house...”

“From which you hath stolen...”

He slumped in dismay, gazed sneering at the wretches. Different faces worn into the same face by decrepitude. Different voices throttled into the same voice by senescence and age-old hatred. Ten Wretches, one ancient and malevolent soul.

“Damnation awaits you!” the Great Prince roared. “Eternal torment!”

“Your pride...”

“Your strength...”

“Are naught but kindling...”

“For the Lust...”

“Of the Derived...”

The Great Prince’s thoughts raced through the old Wizard’s soul.

“They shall glory...”

“In your misery...”

Rising... rising through stench and darkness. A vast throat, ribbed in gold, descending. “Damnation!” Nau-Cayûti bellowed. “How long can you cling, wicked old fool?”

“Your eyes...”

“Shall be put out...”

“Your manhood...”

“Shall be cut from you...”

“And I shall give you over...”

“To my children...”

“To their rutting fervour...”

And Nau-Cayûti laughed, for fear was all but unknown to him. “How long before Hell has its say?”

“You will be shattered...”

“Beaten and degraded...”

“Your wounds will bleed...”

“The black of my children’s seed...”

“Your honour will be cast...”

“As ash...”

“To the high winds...”

“Where the Gods shall gather it!” the Great Prince boomed. “The very Gods you flee!”

“And you will weep...”

“At the last...”

The Shield of Sil climbed high into the dark, toward a gold-shining aperture. Chained within a mightier frame, the old Wizard screamed with lunatic defiance, roared with a strength not his own.

“And when all is done...”

“You will tell me...”

“Where your accurshed tutor...”

“Has concealed...”

“The Heron Spe–”


§


Then brightness, blinking and chill.

The cough of too cold air too sharply drawn.

Night had fallen quickly once they had descended the far side of the glacier, forcing them to camp just below the frosted heights. They had settled upon a ledge that was lifeless save for the tattooing of lichens across the sunward faces. They had fallen asleep clutching each other–for hope as much as for warmth.

Now, rubbing his eyes, the old Wizard saw Mimara hugging her knees on the mounded lip, staring out across the distance, toward the ruined talisman of Ishuäl. She spared him a curious glance, nothing more. She looked boyish for her hair, he thought.

“I dr-dreamed...” he said, hugging his arms against a shiver. “Dreamed of him.”

“Him?”

“Shauriatas.”

He had no need of explanations. Shauriatas was the curse-name of Sheönanra, the cunning Grandmaster of the Mangaecca, the intellect who discovered the last surviving Inchoroi and resurrected their World-breaking design.

Shauriatas. The Lord of the Consult.

The surprise in her eyes was fleeting. “How’s he doing?”

The old Wizard screwed his face into a scowl, then coughed in laughter.

“Not quite himself.”

The vale plummeted and piled across the morning distance. Gullies and ravines, hanging one from the other at tumbling angles. Ramps matted with conifers, shouldering scarps that climbed to the clouds. Ishuäl perched over the lowland creases, its towers and walls overthrown...

The ancient sanctuary of the Kûniüric High Kings, hidden from the world for an entire age.

He had not known what to expect when he and Mimara had crested the glacier the previous day. He had some understanding of time, of the mad way the past formed an invisible rind about the present. When life was monotonous–safe–what happened and what had happened formed a kind of slurry, and the paradoxes of time seemed little more than a philosopher’s fancy. But when life became momentous... nothing seemed more absurd, more precarious, than the now. One ate, as one always ate, one loved and hoped and hated the same as before–and it all seemed impossible.

For twenty years he had cloistered himself with his Dreams, marking progress in the slow accumulation of nocturnal variance and permutation. The growth of his slave’s children became his only calender. His old pains evaporated, to be sure, and yet everyday had seemed to be that day, the day he cursed Anasûrimbor Kellhus and began his bloody-footed trek into exile, so little had happened.

Then Mimara, bearing long dead torment and news of the Great Ordeal...

Then the Skin Eaters with their evil and blood-crazed Captain...

Then Cil-Aujas and the first Sranc, who had driven them into the precincts of Hell...

Then the madness of the Mop and the long, manic trail across the Istyuli Plains...

Then the Library of Sauglish and the Father of Dragons...

Then Nil’giccas, the death of the Last Nonman King...

So he had wheezed and huffed to the glacier’s summit in the calamitous shadow of these things, not knowing what to think, too numb and bewildered to rejoice. For so long the very world had been the mountain between them, and his limbs and heart trembled for climbing...

Then, there it lay, Ishuäl, the sum of labourious years and how many lives, Ishuäl, the birthplace of the Holy Aspect-Emperor...

Blasted to its foundations.

For a time he simply blinked and blinked. The air was too chill, his eyes too old. The sun was too bright, dazzling the icy heights. No matter how hard he squinted, he could not see...

Then he felt Mimara’s smaller, warmer hands enclose his own. She was standing before him, gazing up into his face.

“There’s no cause to weep,” she had said.

But there was.

More than enough.

His laughter forgotten, he now gazed at the wrecked fortress, his eyes clicking from detail to detail. The great blocks, scorched and fractured, spilling down the encircling slopes. The heaps of debris...

Dawn silence thundered in his ears. He found himself swallowing against a hollow pinned to the back of his throat. So much... was all he could think, but whether he meant toil or suffering or sacrifice, he could not say.

The despair, when it came, crashed through him, bubbled through his bowel. He looked away in an effort to master his eyes. Fool! he cursed himself, worried that he had outgrown his old weaknesses only to inherit the frailties of old age. How could he falter at such a time?

“I know,” he croaked, hoping to recover himself by speaking of his Dream.

“What do you know?”

“How Shauriatas survived all these years. How he managed to cheat Death...”

And damnation.

He explained how the Consult sorcerer had been ancient even in Far Antique days, little more than a dread legend to Seswatha and the School of Sohonc. He described a hate-rotted soul, forever falling into hell, forever deflected by ancient and arcane magicks, caught in the sackcloth of souls too near death to resist his clutching tumble, too devoid of animating passion.

A pit bent into a circle, the most perfect of the Conserving Forms...

“But isn’t trapping souls an an

Результаты (английский) 1:

Laughter, thin and eerie, passed through the wretches, like the lash through the whip, one rising from the trailing of another. The Great Prince cast his gaze beyond them, toward the gold-girdered walls. He saw hooded light falling across faraway structures, gleaming surfaces through darkness, stamped with infinite detail, packed into inexplicable forms. A sudden awareness of distance and dimension struck him. Dizzy, gaping spaces. He fell to his right elbow, so sudden was the vertigo. They floated, he realized. The ancient iPod had been being arrayed across a platform of some kind-one rendered of the same unearthly metal as the Ark. He saw the golden through the reliefs scuffs in the offal beneath him, warring figures, leering and inhuman. And the form that opposing S's hooked about the arms of a V. .. A shape is no Son of the House Anasûrimbor could fail to recognize: the Shield of Sil. They floated upward through some kind of shaft, one impossibly vast, a gullet broad enough to house the King-Temple of the whole. The Horns, Nau-Cayûti realized, remembering the tales told by the Nonmen, who had ransacked this place at the conclusion of their grievous war ... "A marvel ..." one of the wretches croaked, a momentary light flaring and fading in his eyes. "Is it not?" They ascended what Siqu so-called the Toir'inskiri, the Grave-with-no-bottom ... "The Iyisku." "They made this." "To be their." "Sssshurrogate world." The vast well that plumbed Golgotterath's Northern Horn. "Now ... now ..." "It belongs to me." They climbed to the world's most wicked summit, where none but the dead and the damned descended. "The very ..." "Stronghold." "Of ssssalvation!" Rage, delirious and titanic, seized the old Wizard's limbs and voice. He howled. He cast his naked body whole, wrenched and heaved with the strength and fury that had made him so many unconquerable on fields of battle. But the Wretches only drooled and laughed, one after the other. "Nau-Cayûti." He drew his feet beneath him, squatted, strained roaring, until his limbs flushed and quivered. He hurled all his being. "Thief." The iron links, creaked but did not yield. "You hath returned." "To the house." "From which you hath stolen." He're slumped in dismay, gazed at the sneering wretches. Different faces worn into the same face by decrepitude. Different voices throttled into the same voice by senescence and age-old hatred. Ten Wretches, one ancient and malevolent soul. "Damnation awaits you!" the Great Prince roared. "Eternal torment!" "Your pride." "Your strength." "Are naught but kindling." "For the Lust." "Of the Derived." The Great Prince's thoughts raced through the old Wizard's soul. "They shall glory." "In your misery." Rising ... rising through the stench and darkness. A vast throat, ribbed in gold, descending. "Damnation!" NAU-Cayûti bellowed. "How long can you cling, wicked old fool?" "Your eyes." "Shall be put out." "Your manhood." "Shall be cut from you." "And I shall give you over." "To my children." "To their rutting fervour." And Nau-Cayûti laughed, for fear was all but unknown to him. "How long before Hell has its say?" "You will be shattered." "Beaten and degraded." "Your wounds will bleed." "The black of my children's seed." "Your honour will be cast." "As the ash." "To the high winds." "Where the Gods shall gather it!" the Great Prince boomed. "The very Gods you flee!" "And you will weep." "At the last." The Shield of Sil climbed high into the dark, toward a gold-shining aperture. Chained within a mightier frame, the old Wizard screamed with lunatic defiance, roared with a strength not his own. "And when all is done." "You will tell me." "Where your accurshed tutor." "Has concealed." "The Heron Spe-"§ Then the brightness, blinking and chill. The cough of too cold air too sharply drawn. Night had fallen quickly once they had descended the far side of the glacier, forcing them to camp just below the frosted heights. They had settled upon a ledge that was lifeless save for the tattooing of lichens across the faces sunward. They had fallen asleep clutching each other-for hope as much as for warmth. Now, all the major his eyes, the old Wizard saw Mimara hugging her knees on the mounded lip, staring out across the distance, toward the ruined talisman of Ishuäl. She spared him a curious glance, nothing more. She looked by boyish on for her hair, he thought. "Dr-I dreamed ..." he said, hugging his arms against a shiver. " Dreamed of him. " "Him?" "Shauriatas." He had no need of explanations. Shauriatas was the curse-name of Sheönanra, the Grandmaster of the cunning Mangaecca, the intellect who discovered the last surviving Inchoroi and resurrected their World-breaking design. Shauriatas. The Lord of the Consult. The surprise in her eyes was fleeting. "How's he's doing?" The old Wizard screwed his face into a scowl, then coughed in laughter. "Not quite himself." The vale has plummeted and piled across the morning distance. Gullies and ravines, hanging one from the other at tumbling angles. Ramps matted with conifers, shouldering scarps released that climbed to the clouds. Ishuäl perched over the lowland creases, its towers and walls overthrown. The ancient sanctuary of the Kûniüric High Kings, hidden from the world for an entire age. He had not known what to expect when he and Mimara had crested the glacier the previous day. He had some understanding of time, of the mad way the past formed an invisible rind about the present. When life was monotonous-safe-what happened and what had happened formed a kind of slurry, and the paradoxes of time seemed little more than a fancy philosopher's. But when life became momentous ... nothing seemed more absurd, more precarious, than the now. One ate, as one always ate, one loved and hoped and hated the same as before-and it all seemed impossible. For twenty years he had cloistered himself with his Dreams, marking progress in the slow accumulation of nocturnal variance and permutation. The growth of his children became his only slave's calender in. His old pains evaporated, to be sure, and yet everyday had seemed to be that day, the day he cursed Anasûrimbor Kellhus and began his bloody-footed trek into exile, so little had happened. Then Mimara, bearing long dead torment and the news of the Great Ordeal ... Then the Skin Eaters with their evil and blood-crazed Captain ... Then Cil Aujas and the first Sranc, who had driven them into the precincts of Hell ... Then the madness of the Mop and the long, manic trail across the Istyuli Plains. Then the Library of Sauglish and the Father of Dragons. Then Nil'giccas, the death of the Last King Nonman. So he had huffed and wheezed to the glacier's summit in the calamitous shadow of these things, not knowing what to think, too numb and bewildered to rejoice. For so long the very world had been the mountain between them, and his limbs and heart trembled for climbing. Then, there it lay, Ishuäl, the sum of labourious years and how many lives, Ishuäl, the birthplace of the Holy the Aspect-Emperor ... Blasted to its foundations. For a time he simply blinked and blinked. The air was too chill, his eyes too old. The sun was too bright, dazzling the icy heights. No matter how hard he squinted, he could not see. Then he felt Mimara's smaller, warmer hands enclose his own. She was standing before him, gazing up into his face. "There's no cause to weep," she had said. But there was. More than enough. His laughter forgotten, he now gazed at the wrecked fortress, his eyes clicking from detail to detail. The great blocks, scorched and fractured, spilling down the encircling slopes. The heaps of debris. Dawn silence thundered in his ears. He found himself against swallowing a hollow pinned to the back of his throat. So much ... was all he could think of, but whether he meant toil or suffering or sacrifice, he could not say. The despair, when it came, crashed through him, bubbled through his bowel. He looked away in an effort to master his eyes. Fool! He cursed himself, to worried that he had outgrown his old weaknesses only to inherit the frailties of old age. How could he falter at such a time? "I know," he croaked, hoping to recover himself by speaking of his Dream. "What do you know?" "How Shauriatas survived all these years. How he managed to cheat Death. " And damnation. He explained how the Consult sorcerer had been Far even in ancient days Antique, little more than a dread legend to Seswatha and the School of Sohonc. He described a hate-rotted soul, forever falling into hell, forever deflected by ancient and arcane magicks, caught in the sackcloth of souls too near death to resist his clutching tumble, too devoid of animating passion. A pit bent into a circle, the most perfect of the Conserving Forms ... "But isn't trapping souls an an

Результаты (английский) 2:

Laughter, thin and eerie, passed through the wretches, like the lash through the whip, one rising from the trailing of another. The Great Prince cast his gaze beyond them, toward the gold-girdered walls. He saw hooded light rising across faraway structures, surfaces gleaming through darkness, stamped with infinite detail, packed into inexplicable forms. Sudden awareness of A and distance dimension struck him ... Dizzy, gaping spaces. He fell to his right elbow, so sudden was the vertigo. They floated, he realized. The ancient amputees had been arrayed across a platform of some kind-one rendered of the same unearthly metal as the Ark. He saw golden reliefs through the scuffs in the offal beneath him, warring figures, leering and inhuman. The form And, opposing S's hooked about the arms of a V ... A shape no Son of the House Anasûrimbor could fail to recognize: the Shield of Sil. They floated upward through some kind of shaft, one impossibly vast, a broad gullet enough to house the King-Temple whole. Horns The, Nau-Cayûti realized, remembering the tales told by the Nonmen, who had ransacked this place at the conclusion of their grievous war ... "A marvel ..." one of the wretches croaked, a momentary light flaring and fading his eyes in. "Is it not?" They ascended what Siqu called the Toir'inskiri, the Grave-with-no-bottom ... "The Iyisku ..." "They made ​​this ..." "To be their ... "" Sssshurrogate world ... "The vast well that plumbed Golgotterath Northern Horn's." Now ... now ... "" It belongs to me ... "They climbed to the world's most wicked summit, where none and the dead but the damned descended. "The very ..." "Stronghold ..." "Of ssssalvation!" Rage, delirious and titanic, seized the old Wizard's limbs and voice. He howled. Cast his naked He whole body, wrenched and heaved with the strength and fury that had made ​​him unconquerable on so many fields of battle. But the only Wretches drooled and laughed, one after the other. "Nau-Cayûti ..." He drew his feet beneath him, squatted, strained roaring, until his limbs flushed and quivered. Hurled all his He being ... "Thief ..." The iron links creaked, but did not yield. "You hath returned ..." "To the house ..." "From which you hath stolen ..." He slumped in dismay, gazed sneering at the wretches. Different faces worn into the same face by decrepitude. Different voices throttled into the same voice by senescence and age-old hatred. Wretches Ten, one ancient and malevolent soul. "Damnation awaits you!" Roared the Great Prince. "Eternal torment!" "Your pride ..." "Your strength ..." "Are naught but kindling ..." "For the Lust ..." "Of the Derived ..." The Great Prince's thoughts raced through old Wizard's the soul. "They shall glory ..." "In your misery ..." Rising ... rising through stench and darkness. A vast throat, ribbed in gold, descending. "Damnation!" Nau-Cayûti bellowed. "How long can you cling, wicked old fool?" "Your eyes ..." "Shall be put out ..." "Your manhood ..." "Shall be cut from you ..." "And I shall give ... over you "" To my children ... "" To their rutting fervour ... "And Nau-Cayûti laughed, for fear was all but unknown to him. "How long before Hell has its say?" "You will be shattered ..." "Beaten and degraded ..." "Your wounds will bleed ..." "The black of my children's seed ..." "Your honour be cast ... will "" As ash ... "" To the high winds ... "" Where the Gods shall gather it! "boomed the Great Prince. "The very Gods flee you!" "And you will weep ..." "At the last ..." The Shield of Sil climbed high into the dark, toward a gold-shining aperture. Within a mightier Chained frame, the old Wizard screamed with lunatic defiance, roared with a strength not his own. "And when all is done ..." "You will tell me ..." "Where your accurshed tutor ..." "Has concealed ..." "The Heron Spe-" § Then brightness, blinking and chill. The cough of too cold air too sharply drawn. Night had fallen quickly once they had descended the far side of the glacier, forcing them to camp just below the frosted heights. They had settled upon a ledge that was lifeless save for the tattooing of lichens across the sunward faces. Had fallen asleep They clutching each other-for hope as much as for warmth. Now, rubbing his eyes, saw the old Wizard Mimara hugging her knees on the mounded lip, staring out across the distance, toward the ruined talisman of Ishuäl. She spared him a curious glance, nothing more. Looked for boyish She her hair, he thought. "I dreamed-dr ..." he said, hugging his arms against a shiver. "I Dreamed of him." "Him?" "Shauriatas." He had no need of explanations. The curse was Shauriatas-name of Sheönanra, the cunning of the Grandmaster Mangaecca, the intellect who discovered the last surviving Inchoroi and resurrected their World-breaking design. Shauriatas. Lord of the The Consult. The surprise in her eyes was fleeting. "How's he doing?" The old Wizard screwed his face into a scowl, then coughed in laughter. "Not quite himself." The vale plummeted and piled across the morning distance. Gullies and ravines, hanging one from the other at tumbling angles. Ramps matted with conifers, shouldering scarps that climbed to the clouds. Perched over the Ishuäl lowland creases, its towers and walls overthrown ... The ancient sanctuary of the Kûniüric High Kings, hidden from the world for an entire age. He had not known what to expect when he and Mimara had crested the glacier the previous day. He had some understanding of time, of the mad way the past formed an invisible rind about the present. When life was monotonous-safe-what happened and what had happened formed a kind of slurry, and the paradoxes of time seemed little more than a philosopher's fancy. But when life became momentous ... nothing seemed more absurd, more precarious, than the now. Ate One, as one always ate, and hoped one loved and hated the same as before-and it all seemed impossible. For twenty years he had cloistered himself with his Dreams, marking progress in the slow accumulation of nocturnal variance and permutation. The growth of his slave's children became his only calender. His old pains evaporated, to be sure, and yet everyday had seemed to be that day, the day he cursed Anasûrimbor Kellhus and began his bloody-footed trek into exile, so little had happened. Then Mimara, bearing long dead torment and news of Great Ordeal ... the Then the Skin Eaters with their evil and blood-crazed Captain ... Then Cil-Aujas and the first Sranc, who had driven them into the precincts of Hell ... Then the madness of the Mop and the long, manic trail across the Plains Istyuli ... Then the Library of Sauglish and the Father of Dragons ... Then Nil'giccas, the death of the King Last Nonman ... So he had huffed and wheezed to the glacier's summit in the calamitous shadow of these things, not knowing what to think, too numb and bewildered to rejoice. So long the For very world had been the mountain between them, and his limbs and heart trembled for climbing ... Then, there it lay, Ishuäl, the sum of labourious years and how many lives, Ishuäl, the birthplace of the Holy Aspect ... -Emperor Blasted to its foundations. For a time he simply blinked and blinked. The air was too chill, his eyes too old. The sun was too bright, dazzling the icy heights. Matter how hard No he squinted, he could not see ... Then he felt Mimara's smaller, warmer hands enclose his own. She was standing before him, gazing up into his face. "There's no cause to weep," she had said. But there was. More than enough. His laughter forgotten, he now gazed at the wrecked fortress, his eyes clicking from detail to detail. The great blocks, scorched and fractured, spilling down the encircling slopes. Heaps of debris The ... Dawn silence thundered in his ears. He found himself swallowing against a hollow pinned to the back of his throat. Was much ... So all he could think, but whether he meant toil or suffering or sacrifice, he could not say. The despair, when it came, crashed through him, bubbled through his bowel. He looked away in an effort to master his eyes. Fool! he cursed himself, worried that he had outgrown his old weaknesses only to inherit the frailties of old age. He could falter How at such a time? "I know," he croaked, hoping to recover himself by speaking of his Dream. "What do you know?" "How Shauriatas survived all these years. He managed to How cheat Death ... "And damnation. He explained how the Consult sorcerer had been even in ancient Far Antique days, little more than a legend to dread Seswatha and the School of Sohonc. He described a hate-rotted soul, forever falling into hell, forever deflected by ancient and arcane magicks, caught in the sackcloth of souls too near death to resist his clutching tumble, too devoid of animating passion. A pit bent into a circle, the perfect of the most Conserving Forms ... "But is not trapping souls an an

Результаты (английский) 3:

Laughter, thin and eerie, passed through the wretches, like the lash through the whip is rising from the trailing of another.

the great prince cast his gaze beyond them, toward the gold girdered walls. i saw hooded light rising across faraway research into gleaming through darkness, prelims with motion and, packed into inexplicable forms.a sudden awareness of distance and dimension struck him...

dizzy, gaping hotel.

i fell to his right elbow, so sudden was the vertigo. they floated, he realized. the ancient amputees had been arrayed across a platform of some kind–one unearthly rendered of the same metal as the ark. he saw golden reliefs through the scuffs in the offal beneath him, the struggle leering figures, and contours.and the form, opposing s's hooked to the arms of a v,

a, when a son of the house Anasûrimbor could fail to recognize: the shield of Sil.

they floated upward through some kind of shaft, one impossibly vast, a gullet broad enough to house the king temple town. the horns, Nau - Cayûti realized, the remembering because told by the Nonmen,who had ransacked this place at the conclusion of their grievous war...

"a marvel..." one of the croaked wretches, a momentary light flaring and fading in his eyes.

"is it not? "

they ascended what Siqu called the Toir 'inskiri, the grave - with no bottom...

" the Iyisku... "

" i made this... "

" to be their "



" Sssshurrogate world... "the vast city that plumbed Golgotterath's northern horn.

"now... now... "

" it belongs to me. "

they climbed to the world's most wicked summit, where none but the dead and the damned descended.

" the very "

" stronghold "

" of ssssalvation! "

rage, delirious and titanic, seized the old wizard 's limbs and voice. he howled. he cast his naked body whole,wrenched and heaved with the strength and fury that had made him unconquerable on so many fields of battle.

but the Wretches only drooled and laughed, one after the other.

"Nau - Cayûti...

he drew his feet beneath him, squatted, strained roaring, until his limbs and and quivered. i have been hurled all his being...

"thief."

the iron links creaked, but did not yield.

"you hath returned."

"to the house."

"from which you hath stolen...

i slumped in dismay, gazed sneering at the wretches. different faces in the same face by decrepitude. different new throttled into the voice by senescence and age - old hatred. ten Wretches, one ancient and malevolent soul.

"damnation). "the great prince roared. "eternal torment! "

"your pride..."

"your strength..."

"are naught but kindling..."

"for the lust."

"of the Derived...

the great prince's thoughts raced through the old wizard's soul.

they shall glory.

" in your misery. "

rising... rising through stench and darkness. a vast throat, ribbed in gold, descending. "damnation! "Nau - Cayûti bellowed. "how long can you cling,wicked old fool? "

" your eyes "

" shall be put out. "

" your manhood... "

" shall be cut from you... "

" and i shall give you over... "

" to my children "

" to their rutting fervour.

and Nau - Cayûti laughed, for fear was all but unknown to him. "how long before hell has its say? "

" you will be shattered... "

" Beaten and degraded "

" your wounds will bleed.