The void rumbles: a quantum drone. Directionless winds from unknown places howl with unlit static. The whisperings between instants in time take root in this æther and begin to spread notes of sapience, quavers of substance. The thrum of dimension rises, permeates, crescendos in disparity, quails in psyche. These resonances in the carved well of time and space complete a primordial chord: gossamer, clarion, auroral. The sound surges unstoppable through the channels of the real, and in its wake: the spray of manifest, the foam of true. Its waves still lap the shores of Anagnorisis.
The humidity is an unwavering force, a lurker between trees. The sky is visible in cracks and fissures. Dreams carve stone walls to rubble, then reform them. The shining towers of Praphf glower above a dissolving labyrinth of listing cottages and burned-out fires.
The dawn grasps and unfolds, a plasmic octahedron within a tumultuous sky. The glare is arresting, phosphoresque. A hand of war rests upon the pommel of this great sword of land, the craggy edge, as ever, the color of the heavens’ blood.
The cliffs rise, one upon the next. The Spindle is the axis around which wind the fibers of woven terrains. It reaches high into the night’s mist, and into day’s embrace. It is said that to ascend to the pinnacle is to cleanse the mind and soul of flaws. It is also said that to touch the substance of the Spindle itself, obscured by the wrappings of its many cliffs and tiers, will cause the entire region to collapse.
Here, ice glitters under a gleaming sky. The wind dances across frost-covered rocks, lilting away with stolen warmth. A popular song known to a tribe of painters tells that color was invented here, and spread to the rest of the world trapped in blocks of ice. When the ice melted, the color escaped to erase the grayness whose fingers held all else. Thus the world was changed, and all now bear this mark, which, so goes the song, beckons all back to the ultimate north.