[Book I: Froxxe's Plummet]

[00-000]

The Stolen Memories:
Day 00689, Mecredi, Of the 13^th hour.

I am writing this because I am not yet sure if I will have survived this surmounting coup.

Criexdrian has gone mad.
The God demands the full reparations to be met for the Council's previous errors, although these errors were indeed a result of his meddling within Oniah.

He believes that the Council's mortal envoys will not be able to accommodate all of the responsibilities of the Consortium. “They are second class beings, after all.” He says-- I once believed that his arrogance could not grow, but I could not predict that it's dimensions could change entirely. The arrogance has taken the form of an advancing, twisting essence, something deeper and foul.

The Council knew that the Spine of Chaos was on course towards the continent, but their predictions would never include the two landmasses to collide.

Even more distressing, I must note, several nations across all of Aeternum have made advancements towards the Spine of Chaos. I believe they intend, and have made preparations for utilization of the Spine's reactive elements, in war.

War has not been upon Aeternum for hundreds of cyclings, and here in the bleak dusk, it stirs again.

I'm not yet sure of Criexdrian's motives, but I am sure that if the Spine collide with Oniah, it would spell ruin for all sentient forms and could very well destroy the Dragon's domain.

You see, there is much to ponder for a god like I.

I have not yet been able to take up all of the duties that the missing Envoys and Messengers had once taken care of; I find that with the growing heavenly tasks, the scorn of Balance has been accordant. I feel as if it draws closer, a hatred is growing, indeed polarizing all in it's sea-seeking course.

And of what forms compose this sea, I cannot yet place.

I do pray for the Fate of the Consortium.
I pray for Creixdrian, may his hauteur become soothed by humility,
I pray that my theories are mere error in my judgment.
I pray for myself and my son, for if I am correct, I cannot imagine what horrors may pass.

Froxxaleus, Elder God, Of The 2^nd Tier

*~*~*~*

[00-001]

Ascendance.
The world was a wash of sounds, the soft crash and kiss of the tides on the substantial; a twin contrasting viscosity to compose the realms of reality. At first, only this whisper be heard, but as the feeling of ascendance intensified, more was added to this primal brew of sensation, the tug of a force below and around, for hard shape to discern an ocean.

Time drifted until something more concrete than ocean pressed against what seemed like the back side of soft form. The softness of what could be described as liquid pushed and pulled, continually, redundant. The form traveled no longer.

A sting, then, there was certainly water in lungs, bringing consciousness to the immediate present; the body erupted in a series of frame-wracking coughs, a natural defense of the foreign liquid to breach its equilibrium.
Mind struggling at the tugs of oxygen that surged within, eyes fluttered, and body shook; every natural alarm was set off.

But, the coughs began to recede and the eyes flickered open to grow more acquainted to the brightness of blooming being. The sound of waves became less of a roar and more of a voice, hushed, whispering, calm.

Blinking the first rays of light away, eyes studied its landscape. Limbs were still weak, they moved as if they never moved before, pushing back the body out of the surf and into the grainy dots-- yes, sand.

A dim consciousness rose like dawn, slow, but brighter as the world spun. It felt as if the mind had been in dormancy for years, and now it was revitalizing, going through the process of analysis. In an awkward twitch, the grounded body made an attempt to sit up. It failed, once, falling back to the soft earth, and in a second act of defiance rose through the bonds of gravity.

The body jerked towards the surface of the water, limbs feeling surer by the second, palms slapping down on the malleable surface.

A quivering face reflected in the dull waves, the face of a boy, more grey than brown to originally color flesh. Eyes with naught but a glimmer of teal and taupe stared back, like that of the waves below, profound and fluid.