Abbot Saxtus recites one of his favorite rhymes found within the many scrolls archived at the abbey gatehouse.
“This wind’s icy breath o’er the land of death
Tells a tale of the yet to come.
‘Cross the heaving waves which mark ship’s graves
Lies an island known to some,
Where seas pound loud and rocks stand proud.
And blood flows free as water,
To the far northwest, which knows no rest,
Came a father and his daughter,
The mind was numb, and the heart struck dumb,
When the night seas took the child,
Hurled to her fate, by the son of Hellgate,
The dark one called The Wild.
You whom, they seek, though you don’t speak,
The legend is yet to be born;
One day you will sing over stones that are red,
In the misty summer dawn.”