The groundwalkers have come. We see them below us like insects as we sail the winds.
They corrupt the land. They pollute the water. They stifle the air.
The horned devils fight well – the small rodents are craven – the metal ones are hard to kill – the pale ones are soft and weak.
Now they come, a pale one and a metal one. The horn is sounded. Their call is heard.
The pale one demands we serve them. By my talons, do they not understand the insult? Do they not know that Osiric has ordered the
Cleansing? Do they not realize that no perch will bend its wings to their service?
We kill them. We dash them upon the rocks. Our answer is known.
Bride Vultura reminds us of our place. Her voice is true.
We are the storm.
The storm does not fall. It strikes.
The kingdom of the sky will be cleansed by blood – groundwalker blood.
Let them come! We will dive upon them and our talons will tear them asunder. We are the children of the Stormfather. Ours is a holy war.
No groundwalker will survive the Cleansing.