Twelve times twelve winters have passed since the Day of Great Sorrow. And still I walk the earth.
The mountain city grows emptier. My people flee the past as a jaguar flees a torch.
Last moon, disturbed by the curse, Yuknom rose from his tomb. We barely managed to lay him to rest again. Where he fell, the soil was blighted.
Two of my guardians smeared their spears with his blood: one grew stronger; the other succumbed to the taint.
We are afraid, but not without hope. The curse itself may yet be the answer to our prayers.
