From the Northern village of the race of men, horselords and warriors,
Aran'riod wishes her voice to be heard. And I, the teller of tales,
gleefully comply...

Full the orb arises, a platinum charger gleaming
With the finest offerings of heaven and sky
O'er the frozen tundra like a perfect snowy globe
The Three are One
Long slumbers the Sun
As the Northern Lights bring color to the ancient Yriluawe

Glowing gibbous casts silver light down to earth
Driving the chariot beam like paired roan grey mares
Heads tossed, flanks glistening with Midnight dew
On their mighty backs
The waning light attracts
The humble adoration of hands raised in mortal prayer

Thin pale crescent against night's black curtain
Like a scythe of light poised to reap the stars
A harvest of diamonds for my Lady's fingers
Scintillating baubles and rings
Fireflies on crystalline wings
To adorn Her hands, not waste away in young boys' jars

The New Moon now approaches, to her chamber I ascend
As the Silver Lady finds rebirth in the darkness
Through the endless turning cycle of the frosty satellite
So too the warrior chieftess
The battle-scarred A'iness
Calls to be renewed, to her lusty cry I hearken

Thin pale crescent against night's black curtain
Wax and wane forever, our devotion, Lady, is certain


Penned by my hand on the 23rd of Lupar, in the year 397 AF.