The Dreamscape Chronicles: Chapter One by @justabloodygame

You can read the prologue here: http://wp.me/p2EY84-sm

All began with the eternal and ubiquitous Id. A sea of life churning in the void. Then came Androgiin, the Consciousness. The Builder who came and saw the nothingness that was, the Id and what might be, and gave all for the world that is.

LET IT BEGIN AGAIN. The Builder proclaimed. And so began dancing. Androgiin, a whirling dervish in the tenebrous emptiness, its steps a blueprint, its self the stock of creation.

From twinkling eyes rose the heavens, the sun and glittering stars.

From a body that nurtured grew the earth, an expanse of high mountains, deep valleys and endless desert.

From a whispering mouth ushered the wind, a procession of storms. From its tears came the rain, filling basins that would become lakes, seas, and the boundless ocean.

From loins that begat sprung flora and fauna of every stripe.

From a mind that gazed and the deep and wondered came awareness, the seed of man.

From a soul that yearned came the Dreamscape, a remaining expanse of Id, floating above, behind, and just beyond, flitting always out of sight, trembling with great power and the limitless potential of our universe and ourselves.

And from its self, many aspects of One, came children most prized—five gods, five faces of the Eternal: Angaama, paragon of justice, wise Wysheid the teacher, Alur, ardent and carnal, Jev, the avatar of destruction, and Eleazar, the Trickster, God of Shadows.

With all sacrificed, Androgiin began to fade, subliming into all it had made. What little that remained drifted to the corners of existence. As it diffused, the Gods wept and beat their breasts, still terrified babes in the wilderness of being.

“Father/Mother, Mother/Father, don’t leave us! What are we? Why? What must we do?”

The reply echoed from the world itself, from frosted mountaintops and streams hushing through nascent forests, from the stars above and storms rumbling across a newborn Earth, from creatures tottering out on unsure legs and blinking at the bright rays of a neonate sun.

YOU MUST GUIDE, LEARN AND LISTEN, STEWARDS OF ALL THAT IS MADE.

“Stay with us! Show us the path.” Came their pained reply.

I AM. I HAVE BEEN. I ALWAYS WILL BE. REMEMBER THAT, MY CHILDREN. REMEMBER… REMEMBER…

And with that, the world lapsed into silence.

 

Fog settled over the city of Dauphin like a shroud, heralding the arrival of the first night of the Festival of Mists. A week-long cavalcade of mourning starting on the anniversary of the city’s eponymous Godking’s loss of his beloved Anna to a coma. The same Anna, now Saiin, who unbeknownst to the city below, was on this very night draining the grieving, mad king of the last of his ill-gotten life.

Dauphin, capital of Jethro’s kingdom, nestled in-between the sea and the vast plains that edged the Vinyasa Desert. A locus point of commerce, of innovation and of fog that billowed in over the ocean like a marker of doom. Peace had reigned for hundreds of years, ever since the aggrieved king had carved his nation out of dissolute city-states and the idle, ill-developed tribes of the western plains. Despite that, the city danced on a knife’s edge. Discord brewed. The gap widened, year after year, between Dauphin’s Senate—and the Noble classes and Mercantile guilds they served—and the vast underclass languished in ghettos, between devout worshippers of Jethro—the man who wrung immortality from the cleverest of Gods, who beat Eleazar at his game (or so the legends claimed)—and those who still remembered those old Ones, offering them prayers of benediction in the night. And so, on the hazy first night of the Festival of Mists, while Jethro crumbled to dust and ruin on the floor of his high castle, the air was pregnant with revolution.

Along the northern, inner wall separating the Noble and Lower Triune’s, a gate opened. Out hurried a dark figure, swathed in shadowy fabrics and obscured by smog. If the evening’s bracing cold chilled them, they did not show it, making with great haste from the relative comfort of the stately homes of the nobles, where even now the indolent rich—the ‘sons and daughters of the blessed’ as they so called themselves—supped and drank deeply in ‘honor’ of their Godking’s loss, heading down loosely cobbled streets and narrow alley-ways deeper into Dauphin’s most impoverished lands. And as this figure moved on, two shadows flitted toward it in the night, borne after it by malicious intent.

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