Wyrd bið ful aræd

Though he possess sweet babes and loving wife, 

   A home of peace by loyal friendships cheered, 

And love them more than death or happy life,    

   They shall avail not; he must dree his weird; 

Renounce all blessings for that imprecation,    

   Steal forth and haunt that builded desolation, 

Of woe and terrors and thick darkness reared.

To "dree one's weird" means to face one's fate. To confront the doom that has followed you since birth. It does not mean to submit to destiny, but rather to stop running from it. Turn and face it.

The curtain of the universe is moth-eaten, and through its holes we see nothing now but mask and ghost.

We have seen beyond the moth-eaten curtain. We have seen the mask and the ghost. The ghost of unreality. The mask of the world. We have seen it and we have run from it.

And we have told ourselves stories. Stories about surviving on the run. About making friends and making plans, about heroic sacrifices and villainous dealings. Stories, one and all.

And it's time to stop.

It's time to dree one's weird.

Get ready.