Verse 8:1 — The Sisters
Thoughts calcify into action, and actions calcify into being. Such is the ontology of Hive magic. Such is the Deck of Whispers that has unfolded beneath my hands.
These cards are curious objects—esoterica manifested by my power and the Guardians' tithes. They have taken on our forms: myself, Savathûn, and Xivu Arath. Our loves and fears, our memories, our desires.
Contemplate me. Contemplate the Hive.
These cards unsettle me. I did not wish to be unveiled so. But perhaps that is the consequence of my transformation: I am seen as I am, beneath my bandage. Beneath my skin.
So, too, are Xivu Arath and Savathûn unveiled. Through these cards, we have found ourselves connected. Dear devoted sisters, and I, inchoate but for the eyes I have stolen.
I have deciphered the meanings of the cards, drawn from them the shapes of their referents. The whispers ask for reflection and meditation, speaking of the paths we have taken and who we have come to be. And so my utterings, alongside those of the two surviving sisters, have taken the form of a new Book of Sorrow: a bound collection of verses sung by their gods and delivered to their brood as scripture.
Now I deliver it to my brood. Now I number among their gods. Aiat.
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