Mirrored from Sythyry.
This being read for Tllith of Yirien, Princess of Septoulny Swamp, «Language»-mage. This being written by Cleiestis of Gemgaru. Layer of six fertilized eggs is she. Priestess of the third florescence is she, mistress of seven spells and three visible and four invisible potencies. Wife of Tomolrouc is she, who is the assistant administrator of flying insects to the Hoouthgala district. The hope from here is that you are in a state of delighted, and that three happinesses and four contentments are on you.
They are not on me.
My head — dragged deep into the bowl of sand and soil! Not deep the bowl, but very deep the dragging!
The human — holding me in two hands when I emerged, jaw and neck, squeezing! Tall! Tall as a couatl is long! Fat! Fat as a grapefruit! Strong! Strong as cooling taffy! Skin of grey! Robes of heavy cloth, symbols embroidered! Gloves on the hands! Clawed sandals on his feet! Necklace of the teeth! Headdress of the wings! Strange and horrid, to a couatl who had never seen a human before, but merely read them as monsters in stories and aliens in the news!
The room — Trash and gauds everywhere! Geometry upon the floor! Burning compost and spices in the bowl! Sword of metal stabbed into shield of flesh! Everywhere the strange things!
The egg — my egg — on the floor!
The human — placed the clawed foot down, slowly! Upon it!
The egg — my egg — crushed! Yolk spilled forth! Tiny thread of my never to be child — poured upon the geometry floor!
The hissing, the frenzy — upon me!
The holding of jaw, the holding of neck — strong are human hands!
The speaking of the human — Cease thrashing, couatl! I have broken one of your eggs! One of them rests in this locket around my neck, with a sharp blade aimed at its heart. A single gesture suffices to crush it and kill your little wriggler. The other two that I took are far from this place. Certain trusted confederates of mine have them. If you manage to kill me, my confederates will hear of it, and they will crush the life out of those eggs, even as I crushed the life out of this one. And you cannot return to Gemgaru by your own arts or connivance, nor is there a single person on Tellosh with the skill to return you to see your other two eggs other than myself. As you can see, then, I have arranged for your utter defeat and pure misery, even if you somehow manage to slay me this instant. Which is not an easy matter! So quiet yourself while you still have five of the six alive, and be submissive to me, or it will go far the worse with you and with them.
Me — quiet. still. what could i do? the situation — hopeless? a well-built trap? unknown! uncertain! my plans — in the egg, like my remaining five children. Plans and children would both require all my care and subtlety to hatch.
The speaking of the human — Kuur Molk Hasp, that is my name. Curse it all you like. I am the supreme sorcerer of Tellosh. I wear spells which will shed your curses as a mountain of power sheds arrows and darts.
The speaking of me — Tellosh — is this Tellosh, then?
For: Tellosh — mythical! half-mythical! land of human monsters in ancient stories! Islands in deep seas, sorcerers wearing headdress of the wings, geometry and symbols to break the thin wall between bright Gemgaru and dread, dismal Tellosh!
The speaking of the human — Yes. You are on Tellosh. I have need of your powers. I am a hard man in a hard situation. Obey me carefully, or I shall be hard upon you.
to do — what?