Curse of Weyland

Our tongues cleave to the roofs of our mouths in the depths of these Slave Pits. We weary like lions at the noon of a Summer day. Hot sweat is our only consolation. The Task Masters ignore our cries of salvation and seem naught to care for our souls as they demand that the work be done. The bellows of Weyland blow harsh upon us as we toil in this excessive heat. He recklessly hammers upon the irons, working like a maddened bull stricken with passion and frothing at the mouth. Will the fires of his forge ever be quenched? The lordly sun Helios is merciless as he lashes the land with his molten whips, scarring the barren soil. The earth groans for relief from his oppressive show of power. Her flesh is dry and cracks as she pants like a dog. Some even pray to the Frost Giant to return to these lands and bring with him cool relief. But behold, the wonderous Queen of Amazonia brought forth a beautiful chalice laden with magical orbs of an Ice Wizard to help me with my toils this hellish day. May the Ancient One laden her with joy.