Mortality is the mother of life. We have turned our backs on her.
The Monkey King has built his throne on your back. A throne of gold and gem, polished with blood and tear. Throw off the Monkey King and his shining privy, before your back is broken.
There is nothing 'eternal' in this empire of ours but the names of our day that shall be revered or reviled in the centuries to come.
The Shadow whispers and simpers at the Monkey King's feet, but when the Monkey King puts his back to the Sun, it's the Shadow that leads the way.
The Monkey King names you 'slave'. No. You are the gems of Wraeclast, not the treacherous stones you dig and die for. It's time to bend the Monkey King's ear. Tell him your true name.
The gemmed genteel are an infestation. They are the Monkey King's fleas that drink of your lifeblood. Crush them in your work-forged hands! ru:Древний рисунок