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Mark well our uprising from the dregs of the earth, a specter of fine lace and heavy shadow birthed from the hollows of time. Thy pulse is but a frantic bird within its cage, and we are the soft hand that seeketh to grant it rest within the void. Knowest thou that the sun hath no power over such as we, for we are the queens of the endless eve, draped in the majestic grief of the unburied. ​Tremble not before the frost of our breath, for to die beneath our kiss is to be wove into a chronicle that outlasteth the very stones. We thirst for the ruby tide of thy life, that sacred spring which alone canst warm our frozen veins through the weary centuries. Come, let us tread the path of the evernight, for thy soul is the candle flame wherewith we light our way through the abyss.
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