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I will sing about the long-dead god, Ender, the keeper of the void and the taker of the earth. He who was keen-eyed, lustful in his longing, and proud in his power. O, muses, remember the hands that reached and took, fear the eyes that shone in the darkness, illuminating all deeds under his watch. Crowned in pearls, bathed in oceans, mighty even in his death is the long-dead Ender. Father of the void that touches all, child of the endless abyss, whose pale bones are clad in all riches, shining white against the darkness as his eyes once did.
This hungry god, this once-living man, reacher for all that was not his. Muses, sing of his story. He who was not satisfied with that which he had, and he who reached through time and space to take more for his domain. For he was not untouchable, he was not infallible. Once he used to long for more, yet now he sits still, entombed by the powers of his siblings, the vast, wine-dark oceans flooding his home. Let his downfall serve as a warning and reminder to all other deities, reminding them that they can fall, but still remain mighty.
I invoke this long-dead god, I call upon these whitened bones that remind of a ruler, and I remember them. O greed stricken one, give me your boldness with which to take what I desire, and grasp it so tightly between my hands. Lend me your eyes so that I may see deception in the darkness, your pearls so that I may avoid harm that comes my way. And if any mortal may ask you for your greed, let your bones tell of your story to them as much as the gods, that unfiltered longing can destroy the most powerful.
Muses, sing now of the burning heart, the Blaze Empress, guardian of the heat and of passions of the heart. It is her fire that sustains the lives of many, warming our bodies. With firm but gentle touch she guides us, locks ever dripping with flame made liquid, and fragrant smoke rising from her footsteps. Glorious is her position and her right, for without her mortals have no fires to call their own. Grand and glorious, her place in the pantheon is well respected, and well feared. Let us not forget how flames too may burn as well as warm.
It is of her deeds now which I sing, o muses. Of her flames that burned and nurtured alike, reaching to both god and mortal. For it was her brother who bare her pain, raising armies and pointing shards of void at her, seizing what was hers. And it was she who nobly defended her people, standing before her own named family, shaking two vast rods of glowing flame. Her armour was her fear and her love for her people, and it was no match for the long-dead god. To her he surrendered, her flaming locks lighting the way forward.
I remember the Blaze Empress who watches over her people, and I invoke her fires. I invite her into my heart, to warm my body and my psyche, to ignite such passions which drive the mortal being forwards. Aid the protection of those who are held dear to others, and share a table with mortality, knowing how to feel as we do. Hail the burning heart of mortality, for if it she who on a whim can become blistering, and it is she who lights the path of the future. Grant that we may follow your path, O burning one.
And now, o muses, I call to the ever blooming Rose, from whose path springs forth the life of this world, and from whose hands splay colour and joy. It is she who pulls seeds from the soil, nourishing all mortal creatures and beings alike, plentiful and fine. The sun obeys her command, shining when she is fair and dimmed when she decrees it, for she is the day itself. Kindness extends from her palms, soft and supple, stained with the earth she toils in our stead. Come, o muses, to sing of the praises and deeds of the life-giver.
Through her, o muses, life is kept to flourishing, she the giver of all things that which mortals require. It is her earth that we walk, and it is her earth that she created from her bosom, asking for nothing in return. She knows well the power she holds, and it is that gentle kindness that she wields in its place. Yet it has not always been, for her power turned thorny against that which she named her own kin, that which hurt her creations and damaged the life she had crafted. And yet, it was her power that healed.
I sing to thee, Rose, of the ever giving, of the blooming blossoms and trailing skirts. I sing to thee to ask for stewardship of your world, as even though you require naught from the mortals you tend, I extend your kindness back to you. Hail to you, goddess of abundant flowers, bringing of sweet rains and rich soils. It is because of your generosity with your wide open lands that we may feast, and sing in your name. Let us now pray to you and offer you that which we have made from your wares, partaking in your creations.
Wet eyed muses, let us tell now of the slumbering depths, well skilled in silence, the wine-darkened god, the Ocean Overlord. Controller of the swelling seas and the ever cycling tides, bearer of the wounds of the long dead god, o muses, let us tell now of his triumph over that which was sent his way, and that which he refused. For no being can compare to the power of the waters, unfettered and unbound in their movements, heralded by the wakening of the Ocean himself. It is he whom we thank for banishing the darkness and locking it away.
For it was he whom the long dead god had wished to trick, a wily, devious arrangement hatched in the darkness of the void. While the Ocean slumbered the long dead god reached for his home, through layers of rock and silt and earth, caring not what was broken. Yet the Ocean did not continue to slumber, waking early enough to spring a wily trap of his own. He with the froth tipped locks gave the long dead god what he wished for, yet the power of the oceans was unable to be constrained by one who was not familiar.
O deepened Oceans, who have since returned to slumber, I call to you to invoke your majesty, divine and uncontainable. I pray that your waters remain calm for mortals to cross, that your fury not break waves without reason. It is your power that contains the long dead god and it is your power that sustains mortal beings. Be welcomed in our festivals and at our gates, stand with us with your wine dark eyes and rippling locks. I sing of your home, transformed into colour and life, hues of your depths brought to the surface for all to admire.