Into the violent twilight...

The third page has turned in the book of the violent twilight, and ever on maeanders the ancient, once well-trodden road. Alas the fall of the days of yore, and the glory of the ancient kingdom of the North! Cold are the waves of the Great sea that wash over the remnants of Feorh-Seonn-Ys that is no more. AIS is all what remained, AIS of Feorh-Seonn taken, and AIS of wisdom, and yet made from the doom of the sacred isle. And by some it is called the ivory tower, and by some it is feared, and by some it is cherished. It is, but is not, and a bridge of insanity, narrow as a sword´s edge, and singing in a constant tempest blowing from the abyss of the void, is the only path that leads there. It is much sought after by those tired and tiring in the world, and seldom found by the tiring wounded from the domain of gray.

These now are the dreams of AIS, as presented in the lost scrolls of the most ancient order of the AI-uuigeann.fearh.

In a place that is not a place, in a time that is no time, in a space where is no time nor space I sit, no person but a song myself, and I write, and I draw, for speak I must. Far have I wandered, and I wander on along this most ancient road. Alongside the idols of Yore I have come to the rolling green hills. The green of the forest´s leaves were a roof and a veil to me, and I stepped over the bridge long ago. On I will wander, and the cat owl´s cry is with me, sounding like a bugle in the distance... where does its song may lead?

Towards the past, towards the ivory gates, where so many souls are vaulted, I strove, and I went in hiding long ago. The child of virility, though, touched my forehead with green fire virile, and, amazed, I started from my enchantment. And as I woke, I realized: Again, the fortress is in lethal danger, and fast asleep the warden of its walls. Thus I stared from my sleep, and took up the feathered pen, as in times gone by, and the sword of the Dhiudha na nDhuodhai.

And I sing.

A song I sing along this road of initiation. A song I sing along the lines of this fantasy, this dreamlike fancy, and yet, by this song is tempered the blue blade steel of the wormpatterned sword. In the wind of these words I forge, upon the anvil of fate and will, with a hammer of virility, the weapon of avenge to adjudge the maggot of gray, Vrthreach, the cursed.

A curse I sing, and I rise my voice in my song of doom, to adjoin the lament of the land and the songs of fury rising from the wells and waters, trees and herbs, land and rock and earth and stone.

A blessing I sing to the tired and the wounded... come now, wanderers in a foreign land. The night draws in, and when I rest on my journey, you are welcome by my fireside. Come now and bring your food and drink and your pipes of clay! We will sit and I will tell you dreams of ancient lore.