By gloomfallen night, he sleeps beneath the mist. And by day he awakens and whisks. Deep rock shakes ere he moves, the whole Earth, his son, trembles.
For blending days and nights the monks shuffle schemingly. In rows they bow and pray, and the craftsman exalt him unto clay. The beached worship is scoffed by the black-robed.
Two sides of the undying coin. For by night they chant their ploy. Say they, Kwohhur be false, the ground be fickle, and pray in dark, illumined only by their thought, the pale moon.
And for many days in arching circles, the sects twist about and await, and the sky dims and lights purple. And on the frantic eve, the dark ones shout, as their saviour comes from the dimmed white sprout.
Syciathalach, the star mother, say they. And the worlds clash greatly, ceased not by days. Kwohhur has risen, and nips the flying beast.
The turmoil shakes the very Earth.
Oceans fly from floors with mirth, and whole tides drift milkily to the heavens. So too does a great war rage on the shaken land.
Revealed to each other now, as fate be ran, the robed and the pious fight. All Earth lit up with the rhythm of the ballad, day and night. In the end, a terrible loss for all. The moon beast lay dead, and her adversary deathly drawled, his wounded and breathing side ever beshawled, one with the mist. And the green isle lay quiet.