Oracle of the one born of Hanuman's womb,
Words to confirm what has gone before.
Blessed is the one who grasps inner meaning,
For only the inner eye may read.
In the year of the badger,
My office to the Feeble One.
Century-old master of our sect,
And his bloated viceregent;
The Mad Prophetess.
Occupying the forlorn monastery of Tsang,
Whereupon no worldly man may enter.
The task was the keeping of the scrolls,
Housed in abundance.
No longer could they read the scripts,
Traced upon parchment.
From the skins of humans,
Stripped on their deathbeds.
When one might dare to read
What was written on those pages;
Dangerous doctrines might arise,
But forgotten by the tortures of our tribe.
But these two arts,
Copying the scrolls.
Flaying of humane hides,
Was the monastery enriched.
Discipline for their prisoners.
Year after year.
'Till the return of Zinxong,
Away serving as the torturer;
For Qwon-Ling, the most powerful.
At first rejoicing,
As for a long lost relative.
Little they knew that his warriors,
Were slaying all who opposed them.
Sounds of fighting in the dining hall,
All rose safe for the Feeble One;
Who had to be carried from place to place.
The false brother greeted the warriors,
The chieftain as well as his shaman.
His tribe had made alliance with our rivals,
The Brotherhood of Leng.
Their silken yellow caps glowed in the soft light,
Their presence was blasphemy.
A sword struck the Feeble One;
A second blow silenced forever the mouth of the Mad,
Prophetess ever at his side.
None mourned greatly at the passing of the Feeble One,
His voice not being heard in many a season;
Since the Mad One had dominated him.
The Cult: the Red Hats of Tsang.
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