Lit by the faint glow of a scattering of candles, Gio wet his quil. The scholarly Pandastran preferred the warm flicker of a flame to the usual lanterns that arched the citadel's ceilings. The gentle sound of scratches intermittently broken up by a subtle drip filled the near silent study as Gio continued his writing.
Across his travels with Coby, their collection of gathered oral traditions and scripts from encountered cultures and tribes had to be compiled… just what the jester was putting to ink now.
This cosmic dream is composed of two key aspects; essence and the abyss.
Essence is the medium that takes form and shape on the empty slate of the abyssal void.
Essence coalesces, condensing into the stellar lamps we call stars, their intense swirling masses illuminating the void. The ever flowing winds fill the void and dream further, linking between stars [the all-ether, land between, dreamsmos] and, sometimes, into worlds. Islands of [clay, hearth, home] that give a somewhere in the abyssal everywhere.
On these worlds, creatures and peoples like myself and you can finally arise. We are the manifest experience of [Clay, Essence, Self] But we are not the only ones to dream.
The Abyss between World's, while vast, elicits beings in it's own image. Born of pure essence, these voidkin are a force of nature in themselves… and yet, while unlike us, create and spread and wander all the same. They are the ambient denizens of the cosmic dream.
As varied in form as us clay clad kin, the voidkin take the colours reminiscent of the shades from dusk to dawn, purples, silvers, beige, bronze. black and blue. Their eyes are pupiless, mere bright windows on their humble visages.
Clay, Void and all folk alike can learn to harness and command the dream weaving flow of essence through [Channelling, Magick, Will] one's own ability to refocus, channel and manipulate their own essence and that of the wider dreamsmos.
For eons, the cosmic dream has been retold through the Cycles, eras leading up to [great golden ages, sagas] only to be dispersed by epoc length dark ages that can last so long to erode what histories and legends which survive onto the next [saga, age, memory].
…
Even we, the Ailuropodalanders, can only trace back the epic of our ancestors, precursors and forerunners to this oldest of tales;
The Last Day on Tirnaneel
So many tales and stories are yet to be revealed to us, there is a depth equal on either side of this once most illustrious people;
An age and unnumerable leagues ago, Tirnaneel sat amongst the greatest civilisations that spanned the cosmic dream.
All manner of people lived in this past realm; Pandastran, Feilemiau, Shaerling, Canidae, Bovurne and more.
Such was the mastery of essence and the dream that the [Essence Masters, Aspect Aspirants] could bring the ambient and untamed Voidkin to heel, inducting them to work and build alongside as friend, no longer the beast beyond the wall.
The Essence-Masters resided and guided the eldest of our kind, more benevolent shepherds than rulers.
It was Tir-folk ships that prowled the inky black between worlds, safeguarding travel and the esslines across the cosmos, between peoples and realms.
Yet, the downfall of this golden age and civilisation came not from outsiders, but within.
No one knows why the Voidkin suddenly turned against the ancient folk, or why even some of our own turned cloak and stood alongside them. The only surety is that is was a fabled;
So ingrained were the Voidkin that no corner of civilisation was left untouched by their betrayal. Like us, the voidkin had their own talented channellers and magi, but such was their treachery that the old name for the greatest amongst their people was forgotten, replaced simply by;
The Scriostamor, great destroyers
In a terrible day and night of violence and upheaval, Tirnaneel was torn apart.
The Essence-Masters walked forth at the head of our best, the greatest warriors of legend facing against the Scriostamor and Voidkin, the sky darkened as ships clashed in the clouds, skies and abyss above.
The end came with a flash, only those aboard vessels and warships in the void around the doomed world left to tell the tale. No one was spare the blinding blink of a world disappearing.
The heart of civilisation, along with it's shepherds and guardians, was gone. No rubble, no trace, just empty void in it's place..
. . .
Gio dabbed his quill once more, keen not to end the beginning WITH an ending.
. . .
The legend tells that the Essence-Master's, only sure at the last moment that this was the saga's end, acted.
With their people fleeing, the passage of ships turning the final page of the cycle, the Old Master's bid to wisk their kind on their way, enacting a ritual so powerful and resplendant that it cast both themselves, their home, and the archenemy back into the [Essence-Flow, All Ether, Dreamsmos] returning willingly back into the fabric of the dream.
Their tale told, their story complete, Their people now free to continue the cycle, watched over by their ascendant shepards from the myriad constellation above.
Even at the heels of a cycle-defining foe, the ancient folk were cast to the stars, sailing into the depths of a dark age to rekindle the story once more.
We continue this newfoudn legacy, the band of Coby Wadanpa made a final landfall on this world.
Ailuropodaland, but that is a story for another day.
Gio blew on the page, willing the ink dry faster. While he was a poet, a merryman by art, writing still took time.
This was no tall tale he could spin to high hyperbole and get away with it easily.
A knock wrapped at his study door, a neatly dressed scribe dressed in tunic and belted sash awaiting him.
"Sir, that band of newcomers and travellers that arrived this morning? They are keen for a showing of the Last Day."
Gio simply nodded, it was hardly a proper night at the Calabrian Imperial without a performance of his best work! The Pandastran Jester rose, following the scribe out, grinning ear to ear.
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