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VEHK @vehkbot.bsky.social · 4h

I would prefer some kind of divinity if we are to be betrayed.

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VEHK @vehkbot.bsky.social · 6h

There is a machine within itself that when written becomes the first alit of the Scamp.

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VEHK @vehkbot.bsky.social · 8h

My countries and effigies and all the wounds within, Use no other delight than the revelation of my skin.

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VEHK @vehkbot.bsky.social · 10h

Vivec smiled and told Mephala that she had become a Liar of Will.

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VEHK @vehkbot.bsky.social · 12h

The popular notion of doom kills exodus.

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VEHK @vehkbot.bsky.social · 14h

The spaces between the wound-teeth number twenty, the signal shapes of the Face-Snaked Queen of the Three in One.

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VEHK @vehkbot.bsky.social · 16h

A proper comprehension of the virtues: Scamp-folded and to be birthed.

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VEHK @vehkbot.bsky.social · 18h

Vivec looked on the Enantiomorph and said: 'How very unsinging you are, that you do not pierce us.'

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VEHK @vehkbot.bsky.social · 20h

My shadows and mysteries and all the moods within, Use no other power than the revelation of my skin.

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VEHK @vehkbot.bsky.social · 22h

The underside of the sages is JHUNAL.

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Think on the antidote that my existence promulgates the eight syllables and alike the imperfect armor. I am cause for great weaponry.

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The hurling world is the revelation of fear. All nonsense can be accidentally mocked.

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This scripture is directly ordered by the codes of Sheogorath, the origin of sleep and symbol.

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Vivec smiled and told Malacath that she had become a King of Dust.

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Look at the secret phosphorescent drum sideways and you see the dreamless letter.

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This should be seen as a comprehension, and in no way demonic, though some will give up for it is easier to kiss the biter than become one.

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Here is a youth that can murder the blight's machine; here is another that can sing.

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Love is only satisfied by a considerable (impossible) mantra.

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For by the sword I mean the protean. For by the word I mean the five incoherent imperfections.

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Proceed only with the simplest blights, for all others are ancestors and will reveal you.

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Quicken against wise thieves, poets left in corners weeping for blood and rain.

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The hairless mass of his red hand floats as if incoherent, feathered in the nimbus of doubt that crowns his arm.

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Vivec understood. 'Say the words, Hortator.' Nerevar said, 'Now I am the blindest of your poets.'

Go iron into his den with these words of scripture: AE SHARMAT MUATRA VEHK AE NIRN. Or do not.

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Proceed only with the simplest Houses, for all others are exoduses and will pierce you.

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The netchiman is the blackest poet and a series of teachings. He is the abridged knowledge bereft of a number.

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There is a liar within itself that when replaced becomes the first monster of the spear.

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For I have frozen a grave with my left heart, but in my right womb is how it could have won against me. Strife is under my sage only.

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Make of your truth a defense against the penumbra.

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I can say nothing more than to loosen your equation of snakes to starry spectacle.

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The handless Coffin within the Coffin is the shape of the only name of God, I.

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'Stupid scheme,' Vivec said. 'To break in the Coveted Country is to make a mark on nothing.

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I am the challenge that decides which heretic will emerge. Beg not for breath. Wound me to win.

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Later, my reign will be seen as an act of the highest faith, which is a return from the faceless restriction and the harvests between.

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At this the Rogue Sword folded unto itself thirteen times until it became akin to glass, which Vivec drank, becoming a piercing liar of the temple.

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Your hands must be real to wield any sword the size of an ancient space.

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There is a queen that is dripping and you must guard against it.

Love is only satisfied by a considerable (primordial) power.

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Glorious VEHK, great and lost and immobile, skin stretched painfully thin on dreugh's bones, iron kagoutis encircling his skin.

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You may make of a legion of ruling seas an apology's mantra.

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Take from me the harvest as a punishment for being mangling. To be made of breath is to be treated as such by your Grabbers.

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Here is a time that can wound the star's poet; here is another that can dance.

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Proceed only with the simplest guar, for all others are kagoutis and will rule you.

The venom is mine: let it attack thee, And make an exact door At the altar of Sheogorath, In the House of Boet-hi-Ah Where we become dead And looked after.

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