Words of the Prophetess Beyala Tirin
Lyria's grace is like until the valley spring. To all it flows and wanders where it will.
We are each of us threads of Fate, stretched upon Lyria's loom. We are cut or sustained according some pattern far beyond imagining.
Magic is one gift of the Goddess. Perhaps it is the greatest.
Our cousins paint Lyria in dress of stately white. But I say no robe is worthy of our Goddess. No, nothing clothes her form but whirling mist to shield us from her mystery.
Those who listen softly shall hear the gentle wings of Fate.
Do not wrestle with the way the world is. What should and should not be are nothing but figments of the mind.
Imagine before you the footprints of all the places you will walk in time to come. Strive to see them. Strive to accept them. They are as if already taken.
Lyria whispers her deepest secrets in Lunala's ears. This is when the moon thins and goes dark, for Lunala leans close to my Goddes hear.
If a man does wrong to you, ask yourself if this was Lyria's will. Then look again, and ask if your revenge is also part of her will.
Order? Chaos? They are like directions, North and South. Lyria's grace is where you stand, right now.
Lyria's song rustles the trees and roars in the crash of waves. It transfixes the stars and holds them spellbound, appointed to each season.
Is the sword on display more deadly than the hidden knife? Is the knowledge more powerful when it is known or when it is hidden? Like the cycles of the moon all things have their time.
I have sojourned; I have served: I have given of myself. I shine with the light of Lyria.
The day is warm and I have torn my robes to make bandages for your wounds. Let none of us cover ourselves overmuch, out of false modesty.