My hand cramps writing in this tongue. The syntax is pathetic, and the conjugation maddening. But it is the tongue the Black Worm uses. I must adapt.
It has been centuries since I last walked these halls. There's the spot where my father taught me the Rite of Destruction. There's the stone where I performed my first sacrifice. And of course, there is the rip that swallowed us whole.
How many years were we trapped in Oblivion? How long was it before we turned on each other, consuming our brothers and sisters? I alone survive, blessed by Molag Bal for my ruthlessness. Now my lord has chosen me to guide this Black Worm back to Silaseli and repurpose our work.
When the Worm told me the halls were filled with castoff men, descendants of our slave stock, I was incensed. My first thought was to wipe out the whole lot. But then I had a thought: If one could be persuaded to reopen the rip, even briefly, the Black Worm could use that as an entry into SIlaseli, avoiding any eyes on the surface.
One of the Worm's agents found the ideal man for this task. A simple promise of immortality, and his fate was sealed. Once the Worm entered, rounding up the slaves was a simple matter. The creatures will provide an ideal fuel for my lord's Planemeld.