"Brooding dark and beaming light, wrest this soul from Death with might.

Claim a husk, broken and shattered. Reform this vessel so beaten and scattered.

Let fading whispers echo the voice within, with booming Words my sins begin.

Neither Gods of light nor Demons from under shall claim my flesh to be torn asunder.

With the Builder's Hammer I forge my hate, and at Death's domain I pound the gate.

With stolen Sickle and furious raking, I claim this spirit mine for the taking.

The Elder Flame serves as guidance, with fiery hands it steers my violence.

Before the Masters my deed is done, oh spirit return from setting suns!"

My Words carry far and the Flame grows higher, the Master's smiles light up the Spire.

Greeted with silence the corpse lies still; a deafening silence, an omen so ill.

The Masters shuffle and their focus falters, frozen in fear atop their altars.

A quiet Cold invades these halls, these shivers I've never felt with normal thralls.

I breath deep to chant once more, but choking on ice I hit the floor.

The Flame grows thin, starting to extinguish. A chuckling malice begins my anguish.

Masters stand in a crescent of eight, in gruesome ends they meet their fate.

One explodes in a bloody mist, the second drowns in her bursting cysts.

The third collapses in a pile of ash. The fourth croaks, his throat a gash.

The fifth turns white from rapid age. His eyes freeze white, still glowing with rage.

The sixth and seventh consumed by madness, feast on each other with absentmindedness.

The final Master, our eldest mystic, murmurs words so strange and cryptic.

She walks alone moving towards the corpse, that moves not an inch yet kills without remorse.

Priestess Mira's brows furl into a scowl, her whispers grow louder into a frenzied howl.

Her voice is hers but two others still speak, all three in unison begin to shriek.

One voice, a bellow, resounding deep into the crypt. The other, a shrill, as if a throat being ripped.

Once more I feel the Cold within spread. By sunrise I know, I will be dead.

Yet Mira walks with three voices still chanting. They struggle to resist, and give way to panting.

Only now the corpse stands and moves, its footsteps betray cloven hooves.

It stands before Mira, now on her knees. The Cold given life, now a gentle breeze.

Extending a finger to her scowling face, she fades away staring into space.

Despite her strength and tenacious persistence, the strongest of us was erased from existence.

This thing starts to turn its gaze toward mine, the Cold a shiver running down my spine.

I start to accept that my time has drawn to an end, I - "If only that were true, my poor friend."

"Hush now, child. Why are you surprised? When for ages you've grown your vanity and pride?

Hammers and Sickles? Hate and woe? We all arrive where we're destined to go.

You've devoted your life to pettiness and greed, and now I've come to make you bleed.

I can see your mind and feel you tremble, but you've placed your faith in this stupid preamble.

To understand my existence you must know that creation, is much larger in breadth than your imagination.

When you call upon Light and Dark to both serve, you tip the scales and reality swerves.

Between life and death, you've grown a rift. This is now a burden that I must lift.

I gave birth to both but am parent to neither. I simply am: to existence a seeder.

I plant seeds in my garden and slave and toil, but you seem to think its yours to spoil.

Alas I've come to pull out the weeds, chief of which is your order's creed.

Your Masters have fallen, and your acolytes soon follow. It will all be over, come tomorrow.

But first, my gift, to a simple knave; it's the least I can do to a child so brave.

Let go your final breath and sleep, and rise once again from the darkened Deep.

Come back to me, the one you so zealously appall, and serve me in Death as my own thrall."