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.
Myself — Flung into the center of geometry upon the floor of the sorcerer’s room. Held trapped by lines and arcs scribed in ashes and chalk. Walled-in by incense and foul fumigations.
The speaking of Kuur Molk Hasp — Read from the great book.
D̲URMENT HLI͉DIOPSI͆S TRAH̒N͓U̐UT
By the mighty name of GH͈RỌGSI̯AS I bind thee for so long as thine fertilized eggs remain away from thee.
D̲URMENT KOERGIKU̢S POR̕HANEY
By the dread flame DNUR PEZ̳MON DNUR that dwells beyond the eyes of serene TEPHN̄OHIṀ-LA I compel thee to have no commerce with human, spidersen, or couatl save as I permit during that time.
D̲URMENT IRIMITOR NO̘S̈TER̰ KFERGUNT
By the frozen sea DUZ̞MON OC OK whose waves whelmed the Inapplicable Land, I require of thee never to lift against me wing nor fang, spell nor potency, visible nor invisible device, while you remain in Tellosh and after you return to Gemgaru.
D̲URMENT KJAD̅E TILKOM̗ȂNT͈
These bindings and compulsions and requirements have been written in the Imimitable Script upon the all-siring phallus of terrible NOVŎR; they have been inscribed in jade letters upon the all-knowing forehead of redemptive VUXKNIL; they have been cemented upon the all-ruling wrists of cosmic LO͌RN GA͊SḴ DU̐KU̻ EMPU͋ GA͊S͔K. It is done.
The words — Nonsense words! Never meaning anything, those words!
— but —
When I try to plead with Kuur to release me and my eggs … My mouth — full of fire! Burning! (My face-feathers — scorched!) It is DNUR PEZ̳MON DNUR! I cannot speak!
When I strike at Kuur’s hand… My mouth — suddenly crammed full of salt, of ice, of crashing crunching waves — of DUZ̞MON OC OK!
These things — How can they be? But they are.
Kuur — Speaking, Into the box, thou stupid and disobedient spirit!
The box — Crude wood boards. Glued and nailed. A foot high, two long, three wide. One side — cryptic words written: Dallopp and Heem-Smyth, Provisioners to the Royal Army, Scorth One side — a gaping hole of boards smashed away. A black curtain, heavy ripped velvet, glued and tacked to cover the hole, swept aside by the hand of Kuur to show me. Inside — splinters, crumbs of biscuits, scraps!
The box — My cage. My home.