It is with little surprise that a grand prayer to a mountain should find its origin in the narrow land between the Valley of the Ancients and the mighty Crags of Kera Bohr. For many a traveler have been waylaid by the fury of the Crags. Mountains of its ilk are known for their ill temperament awakened ere the passing of some unwary traveler.

Harkened now onto me
Thine whitened Peaks
That signal journeys unfree

Know that I come

In voice heard let it be
Mine own feet
Shall cross between thee

Upon thine narrow pass

Ending is short for thee
Not so hard
Fast and light as leaves flee

Upon a wind struck day

So look down on me
Kindly in thine heart
Mine voice greets thee

With trust and hope for journeys end

In thine name
So mote it be