The process is simple.

Take the threads between your fingers
and weave between the weft,
till the warp is smoothly warbling to your Litany bereft.
If the greater threads should fray,
take your scythe with which you cleft
and cut them short before they cut you down
and crush you in the depths.

Should you want to spin another, say their names and they will kneel.
For the Light are only sellswords
waiting to be called to heel,
for the Fire is a flicker that licks wicker, wood, and child.
Justify your wheedling later when the world has been defiled.

In the Darkness, thread your needle.
Squint and miss and miss again.
The blood that wells will dye your cloth and all the waters of the glens.
Move the shuttle back across and begin a shroud or ten.
You will need them to the last when you bury your last men.

Every process has an end,
every strain a final stitch.

Listen well, erstwhile friends.
Beware of tsol'teth bearing gifts.

Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Miraman, in the year 800 AF.