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theBooks ofCreation

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The light that formed the essence of God swirled gently into view within the depths of space. It unfolded from out of the nothingness in streamers and veils of rainbow hues that flowed like water from a gentle spring. Its span stretched farther than entire galaxies, and under its gossamer folds, a trillion stars could rest within. It rippled upon the cosmic winds, unfurling with a whispering of movement that belied its vast size.

“Anaphaxeton,” came the whispered sending of thought. It echoed through the midst of time and space, reaching out its summons on levels beyond perception and understanding. “Anaphaxeton.” The light spoke, and another responded.

At first the other appeared as little more than an ordinary star until it danced through the depths, shifting in colors and tones, a kaleidoscope of sheer beauty. It soared effortlessly, dancing in widening arcs and then drew near the vast swirls of colored light before pausing.

“As I enter this last realm, this last universe, the time has come. Gather the Convocation, bring them before the Seat of Judgment. Prepare them for what is to come. This is the moment for which I made you in the Fires of Creation so long ago; here your destiny is finally made whole my Angel. Herald the Judgment Day.”

Anaphaxeton’s form shimmered, touched with sadness, then departed, soaring into the depths until the last flash of its presence passed once more into shadow.

PreludeFrom End to Beginning

“One cannot separate end from beginning, No more than one can separate death from life. They are but two sides of one thing.”

-The Book of Secrets, translation

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Genesis: Books of Creation

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#V#

Left on its own once more, the shroud of light that was the essence of God gathered and began to swirl about a central point in the vacuum of space; it formed a whirlpool of brilliance in the darkness, a vortex that pierced the depths, spinning ever faster. Then, slowly, immense fingers of light unfurled, stretching forth from that bright nexus, reaching from it into the vast depths beyond. As it’s reach extended farther, hand, then arm took shape until finally, a face emerged, all fashioned of light, rising up as if from a glittering pool reflecting an endless sea of stars. The face smiled, one moment seeming more male, the next more female, one moment more human, the next… something other. But with each change, it never failed to radiate a feeling of genuine warmth and joy.

As the full figure rose up from the swirling miasma, three brighter lights pulsed into being within the vast form, one centered behind that shifting face, sending beacons of pure brilliance from its eyes, another at its heart, and a third just at its hip. And as it rose, the veils of the whirlpool clung to it, draping it in flowing robes of light until the vortex itself faded away, leaving only the vast titan it had given birth.

Unimaginable in size, yet graceful beyond measure, the figure of God danced into the depths. It was a dance of joy, a dance of sorrow, a dance, perhaps, even of love. God twirled in grand gestures, sweeping low and reaching high, a ballerina of ghostly essence upon a stage of darkness whirling untouched through the depths.

But then finally, the vast titan slowed, coming to rest as the folds of light settled about the now still form.

God gazed out over the vast depths, seeming to see beyond the emptiness. Instead, piercing eyes of light seemed to look through all of space and time, as if in a single sweep those radiant eyes could take in the planets that spun about countless stars, indeed to glimpse the grandeur of every world that had ever existed. The smile deepened, and the eyes glowed with even brighter warmth. Was it a look of contentment? Perhaps pride? An artist looking upon her masterpiece, a craftsman upon the pinnacle of his work? Or was it merely, yet most profoundly, a look of love finally fulfilled? Perhaps it was all of those things and far more.

A single hand of gossamer-light reached out, as eyes of brilliance closed, and God’s head bowed as if in a moment of reflection. Or perhaps it was a

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Prelude: From End to Beginning

moment of focus, as limitless energies within were brought to bear. At that moment, something happened that would seem impossible: space rippled just beyond the reach of God’s fingers. Even more unimaginable: space itself unraveled, spinning out into threads of the darkest night that twirled toward the great fingers seeming to hold them under their sway. The tapestry of space spun out, but not like a fraying cloth carelessly torn. Instead, it was as if under the touch of a Master Weaver, who slowly, methodically and reverently was undoing work done long before, perhaps, to remake it into something new and more beautiful. The threads reached toward the light then passed silently into it.

The figure of God began to move once more, the cloak of gossamer-light flowering out behind, as space unwove about it. Nebulae, drifting for untold eons undisturbed, washed away before the presence like the morning mists before the rising sun. Stars that had hung in the vast depths for eons flared as the figure passed them, their cores collapsing as the brilliant hues of their light washed out to white, then were snuffed like candle flames. Untold millions of worlds passed within the leviathan reach of God, and as each was touched by the veils of light, they collapsed into dust and were swallowed whole. With each stride, the titan of light grew until entire galaxies were swept up in its path and washed away into its light.

Behind the figure, where it had passed, in the vast depths beyond, the light had died away, reality itself was no more but a darkened canvas lying empty and void as if nothing that was had ever been.

The figure of light continued to drift, unraveling space, dispersing the depths, yet there was a purpose in that movement, intent, for God sought a specific destination. So the figure swept through until drawing near one place in particular. There God paused, the gossamer cloak of light once more settling about its form, vast eyes of untold brilliance narrowed, even as the smile on its immense face broadened. It drew closer to a single galaxy, one shaped like a spiral disk, one wholly unremarkable when compared to others that had already spun out into the light’s expanse. It merely floated there in the depths, untouched and unmoved by the leviathan now considering it.

Then God reached up, hands coming together to cradle that lone galaxy within their span, like a child seeking to catch an errant firefly. Unlike all others before it, however, that galaxy did not whirl out into nothingness. It seemed wholly undisturbed. Eyes radiating pure light then closed, and the figure of God faded away in a single breath, leaving behind only a single small galaxy of stars that now seemed misplaced in endless darkness.


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#V#

A heartbeat later, within that lone galaxy, God’s essence form of light simply stepped into being. Although still of unfathomable size, stretching the distance between stars, what had only moments before been held in ethereal hands now surrounded all about, reaching far beyond the translucent being. God’s gaze swept out, focusing upon a single star in the distance. The figure then strode forward, sweeping unimaginable distances with each stride, until it drew near that small star. Several worlds, of varying size and substance, orbiting that star, came into view as the figure drew closer. One of those planets, in particular, caught God’s attention: a small world of blue and green that spun in the third orbit. Once more those vast hands reached out, this time gently cupping that planet, as if cradling a small, defenseless creature, sheltering it from the cold. White clouds whirled high above blue oceans and green-brown speckled continents within the span of those hands; it was a rich world of abundance, shining with its own grandeur, but truly fragile to the scale of the leviathan of light that now held it close.

God drew nearer, the smile and look of love creasing the vast features, deepening more and more as God’s focus narrowed on this small world. Behind, eclipsed within God’s radiance, the planet’s star pulsed and dimmed, it was dying. Its fires lessening from bright yellow to orange warmth, casting a weakening glow about the ethereal figure and the world it held like a beloved child. The hands paused, almost immersing the small planet and its single moon, yet stopping just short. “It is finished,” came the whispered thought, then those hands of ethereal light closed ever so slowly and gently until they passed over the world of blue-green spinning within their hollow. At that moment, all the stars, the figure, all there was that still remained, passed into darkness.

#V#

Elsewhere, in a place known as the Nexus of Creation, a place unlike any other, an endless sky of crimson stretched into forever. Rose-colored clouds that piled into the depths, floating through the expanse, always seemed just a bit further away. The passing, warm glow that filtered through them was just as elusive, ever-present yet lacking in any visible source. That is, until the moment when a single spark of light

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did appear, streaking into view from the hazy distance, darting between towering clouds, arcing through the vast depths between them. It drew up to a single place where it then stopped, pausing in the expanse. There, floating amongst the endless clouds, the light pulsed, its colors shifting through a rainbow spectrum, flashes of light streaming out into the depths. And then the light gave birth.

Wings of pure light emerged, then unfolded, stretching into the open, and sweeping out a vast arc in their span. The face of a young man then rose from the light, long, flowing golden hair swirling about his brow. Deep blue eyes that seemed filled with stars opened, their piercing gaze sweeping about the crimson skies. As his head turned, the swirling hair unveiled sloping ears, rising to graceful points. His lean, angular form then rose from the light, swathed in flowing white, trimmed in gold, cinched in a golden belt about his waist, and fluttering about golden boots upon his feet, until the figure passed freely from its source, that then faded into nothingness. The wings of light beat upon the air, lifting the lithe form, who now hovered in the vastness.

This was Anaphaxeton, Angel of the Heavenly Host, Herald of the Judgment Day, who even now was about to fulfill his final destiny. He stretched out his hands, and light beamed from his palms, a fire that swirled and flamed, dancing in vibrant arcs that seemed to slowly give shape to objects in each.

In his right a simple leather pouch, finely woven and embroidered, in his left, a great, ornate trumpet of gold and silver inlay, with sculpted feathered wings sloping back along its grip. As the objects took on final form and substance, the Angel’s hands took hold of each, and he bowed, his wings of light sweeping low in homage to an unseen presence that hovered just beyond the angel, one that had witnessed the angel’s arrival in silence, but one that now spoke, though no words could be heard.

“Anaphaxeton, sow once more the seeds of the Tree Eternal, the Tree of Life, the Tree of Knowledge.”

Reverently the Angel reached forward his hand holding the pouch and turned it to its side, letting its leather flap slip open, and its contents spill out into the depths. There seeds scattered, spiraling away into the vast expanse, and as they fell, tender sprouts and shoots of green sprung from the seed husks, weaving out in the blink of an eye.

“The Tree Eternal,” continued the presence, “source of Yggdrasil and


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Kalpa, of the Eternal Banyan and the Lotus, of Nariphon and the Jinmenju, even of Zaqqum and the Jubokko.”

Living sprouts, then shoots, then stalks, then thin branches, and then much more uncoiled into the depths. They twined about one another as if centuries of growth passed with each heartbeat. Some trunks grew beyond all imagination, some as wide about as entire worlds, their thick, caked bark rising like towering mountains across their girth. Along their lengths numerous branches split off, growing rapidly into massive forms of their own, each splitting and weaving out until they flowered into the thinnest web of new growth.

“The Tree Eternal, source of all trees who whispered prophecies, whose roots formed the core of creation and of life itself, and whose branches held entire worlds within, and indeed, reached even into the realms above. Let them spring forth anew.”

Leaves unfolded in countless numbers, some tender and green, others oval and blue, still others heart-shaped and red. Flowers blossomed throughout like slowly opening eyes after a long sleep, tender petals of all shades and hues unfolding, opening to a kaleidoscope of color and new life. Tender buds sprung from clusters of leaves, that then grew heavy, ripening in mere moments until fruits of all shapes, sizes, and colors hung heavy along those branches.

“Let it form the Seat of Judgment, the Forum of the Convocation.”

As if taking their cue, the massive limbs, weaving in all directions, now seemed directed, intentional in their growth. They began to wind about one another, intertwining into sweeping masses of living walls, woven as thick as the orbits of entire worlds, spans arcing out that would stretch the distances between stars, gently curving up into the distant clouds. Then the sweeping spans came together, each forming an arc of a great bowl that could have held a galaxy within it’s hollow.

Finally, in the center of that vast span, a single titanic trunk rose up, branches sprouting left and right from its heart. Great limbs that would shade a solar system fanned out until its top finally touched the ever-elusive clouds.

Then silence once more fell and stillness once more wrapped about the expanse. The roaring of mighty limbs intertwining and branches springing forth, the rustle of tender leaves swept in a rush of growth all drifted away

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into a deepening, peaceful reticence as the Tree Eternal finally found it’s fullness, and the Forum of the Convocation, at last, stood revealed.

Anaphaxeton had hovered in peaceful reflection as the Forum took its shape all about him, he had felt the surges of growth, pushing through the expanse, swallowing the depths in their scale, his wings of light making slow, small sweeps to hold his form steady, centered in that vast hollow, his eyes closed, his head bowed. He had seemed unmoved by all that unfolded, but that was far from the truth, for the angel fought within him a rising sadness, a deep, profound sorrow. For he loved the Second Generation Creation, that creation set within Time and Space, its countless realms, universes, and dimensions, it’s galaxies and star systems, its endless worlds and varieties of life. Like many of his creationmates, those of the First Generation, the Angelic Host, he had spent untold millennia wandering its realms. He had moved among them in his true form of invisible essence, silently observing them in their ways, unseen and unfelt except by the rare, gifted mortal. He had taken on form and substance and walked among them as one of their own, passing as a mortal child of whatever world of the moment. As such, he had loved and lost, gambled and won, enjoyed the pleasures and carried the sorrows of that Generation.

He had not found himself so enthralled with this Generation, when the Divine Essence pronounced its creation, that he had joined those of the Grigori who committed their very existence to it. No, his appreciation had only come much later, when that creation had been fully realized, and he finally appreciated it’s scale and depth. But even so, the realms of essence, the reaches of Heaven, held much he also loved, much he would never forsake.

And yet, as he had watched those countless realms collapse, those universes be swept away, the starlight snuffed, the worlds passing into dust, he had felt a deep sorrow building within him. He knew what was coming, he had known his part to play since the very moment of his Creation – but it was one thing to understand such would someday come to pass and another to watch it finally unfold.

Perhaps it had been that very knowledge that had held him from joining the Grigori, from first feeling such a love of what would come. Best not to become too attached to that which you are destined to play herald for its destruction.

Still, when the Divine had entered that final realm, coalescing about that final world, the one its children had called Earth, Anaphaxeton felt


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a significant loss, and that was something unknown to the Angel before. Oh, he had witnessed death. He had seen countless mortal beings pass from life, seen entire civilizations collapse, even seen individual worlds and stars perish. But that had been different, they had been part of the larger tapestry of this Creation, and when they passed, others arose. Mortals died, and mortals were born, civilizations fell, and others climbed from savagery, worlds crumbled, and others sparked new life in primal seas, stars collapsed in upon themselves, and others flowered anew.

But this… this was the passing of all of it. The end of all things of that Generation.

And the void that once more stretched to infinity had seemed to touch a place within his essence and find its own reflection, an emptiness that he knew would never again be filled.

Then the summons had come, as he knew it would, and he came here. It was in motion, it was happening, and for the angel who was the herald of the Judgment Day, his glorious destiny seemed but a hollow loss. He stood vigil at the end of everything.

Then once more came the sending of God, words not spoken but undeniable nonetheless. “Anaphaxeton, call forth your Song of Summons, bring forth the eternal spirits of all who ever lived from their many resting places. From the heights of Heaven to the depths of Hell, from the realms of Purgatory and Limbo, from Sheol to Valhalla, from Mictlan to Yomi, from the Summerland to Aaru and Duat, from the Happy Hunting Grounds to the Alam al Jabarut, to the shadows of Ka’Arn-Tuunok and all others. Summon those of the Second Generation – once beings of substance, frail and mortal in form, now of spirit… That they may witness this Day of Judgment for their kind.”

Where a mortal mind might only hear the names of places from their own legends and myths, a fraction of the final resting places of the souls of those who have gone before, Anaphaxeton heard much more.

As with the naming of the Tree Eternal, mortal minds could only grasp so much of the depths of true sending. Their minds would fix on those things they recognized, names, and concepts that held meaning for them. All else would pass through unheard, unfelt, and unknown.

But, Anaphaxeton was an Angel of the Heavenly Host, a child of the First Generation Creation, a being of essence, and within that essence

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dwelt a fathomless mind, a far deeper understanding of the realms of both generations, and a much longer life of experience. Anaphaxeton had been created before the first sowing of the Primal Seed that would flower into the Omniverse of the Second Generation. Now, he stood at it’s ending, and he knew so much more than any mortal mind had ever been capable of grasping.

He knew that the Tree Eternal had touched almost every world throughout the Second Generation Creation. Its smallest, frailest branches reaching into every realm, forming mighty trees on countless worlds, many bearing magic, others sparks of the divine, still others bearing seed or fruit of tremendous power that had wrought significant change in their time. Anaphaxeton knew that great spans of that tree formed world trees, vast living things that reached through layers of the cosmos, holding entire worlds in their branches like fruit upon the vine, and even those paled before it’s full form now revealed.

Likewise, where this latest sending might seem a handful of places in a single world’s mythos to any mortal mind, Anaphaxeton felt the naming of trillions of realms, places shaped by tradition and belief, realms set aside for the lasting souls of those who embraced death at the last. Each blessed realm was of the True Heaven, all bound together into a larger whole, and yet each stood apart. There, being realms of essence, they were shaped by the souls drawn to it. Those souls, desperately needing touchstones for their understanding, to find the peace they needed, shaped those realms, forming places that reflected their own worlds, places of paradise that met their desires.

There were realms of pure light, others of vast oceans, still others formed of mathematical equations strung to infinity. There were fields of battle for warriors, cities of rainbows and clouds for dreamers, and realms of utter silence for eternal reflection. There were those so alien to what many of the mortal children could conceive that they could not be easily captured in the words of those other worlds, and others, despite filled with souls from worlds, universes, and eons apart, seemed mirror reflections of one another.

For every realm of peace and light, there were realms of darkness and hate as well. Realms all bound to the True Hell, deep pits of torture and despair, chasms of endless consuming flames and others of utter darkness. There were realms where the screams of the damned were never silent and others where greater terror lay in screams that could not be heard.


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But Anaphaxeton did far more than merely hear their names in the sending of God. No, Anaphaxeton felt his essence expand outward, reaching far beyond the form he had taken, the limited physical form he had wrapped himself in in order to sow those seeds of the Tree Eternal. His true form, his essence now reached out, and touched each of those realms, from the highest heights to the bottomless depths, and in touching them, bound itself to them.

The Angel shuddered as countless realms now opened before him, he could feel and perceive each within his essence, and as they opened, he felt also those who waited just beyond. The souls of all who had ever lived, from every world, in every realm, since the beginning of time to the final moments of existence. They were all there, young souls who had known only moments of physical life, others who had lived millennia, great sweeping beings who had sailed between the stars of their own power, and others who swam in the depths of a single drop of water that defined their world.

Anaphaxeton felt them gathering, knowing something was about to happen, and at that moment, the Angel realized something he had not known before. For all of them, whether they had perished in the ending of all things, or been the first living thing on their world to ever die, it was as if no time had passed. These were their first moments of awareness in the realms of spirit and soul, they had awakened and found themselves in the afterlife of their beliefs, and had, what seemed forever, and yet but mere moments to explore those, but for all, it was all still so new.

Anaphaxeton remembered the first time he had taken on physical form and descended into the Second Generation Creation. He had been shaken by the limits imposed upon that form. His grasp a mere arm’s length, his sight a mere fraction of the range of light, his hearing a mere shade of the range of sound, and the endless array of senses of his true essence now driven into a small handful of perception. It was as if an ocean had been bottled, and for Anaphaxeton, it was a moment of terror, as if he might never again be the whole being he had just been. He had shed that form almost in the same instant he had shaped it, driven by a desperate need to assure himself that he was not lost to its frail limitations. It had taken him several attempts before he felt secure enough in the knowledge that he could free himself whenever he wished. Once held, it had taken even longer to adjust, to sort the sights and sounds, to learn to walk without falling, or to grasp without shattering. With the eons, it had become simplicity itself to shift from essence to substance, he had even learned to find a kind of peace and

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simplicity in the limited perceptions and conceptions of the physical forms, the flesh-sheathes, he had donned through the ages.

How much more overwhelming must it be to these frail beings, who had lived such short spans of time in the mortal realms of the Second Generation, to now know eternity? To have known nothing but their limited existence, their limited perceptions, their limited capacity, and then to have all of that opened to an infinite spectrum?

For the first time, Anaphaxeton understood the purpose in the shifting realms of Heaven and Hell to which the mortal children ascended or descended. In reflecting their beliefs, their myths, their legends, in reflecting idealized versions of their own worlds, or realms of terror with suffering that they could comprehend, they were able to adjust. For whether it be for pleasure in paradise or suffering in the pit, the mortal souls had to come to terms with their new reality.

#V#

But enough of this reflection, thought the Angel, it was indeed time. Anaphaxeton breathed deep, centering himself, once more feeling those connections to those infinite realms of the Afterlife. He focused, deepening each bond, each thread to each individual domain, defining and strengthening them until they seemed to fill his essence, almost overwhelming it. He then drew the gold and silvered horn to his lips, and he sounded the first note of his song, the Song of Summons. He began to play, and the song that had lived within him since the dawn of Creation was at last given form. But it was not a song solely of sound, not just a song of notes and melodies, no, it was also a song of dreams, a song of hopes and memories. It was a song of sorrow, and yet of joy, its notes were prayers lifted on countless tongues, its chords were promises made and never broken. It was a song of life, one that echoed in the memory of each being who had ever lived, a song none had ever before heard, yet instantly all would recognize. And so they did, for that song echoed through the bond Anaphaxeton held with each realm of the Afterlife, and as that song filled those realms above and below, those within surged forward, eager to draw closer to this beacon now before them.

And as the song filled the depths of the expanse, the Tree Eternal stirred once more. Dotted throughout the vast bowl that formed the Forum of the


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Convocation, limbs began moving, twisting and intertwining about others, forming tight knots that seemed to collapse into themselves. Masses formed by the countless thousands, stretching out vast distances, circling the Forum, all circling about the lone Angel whose song had given them form. The thunder of creaking and cracking limbs tightening in on themselves echoed throughout the great hollow.

Then the corded knots paused, and then began spiraling out once more, but now the interwoven branches formed twisting lattices that framed openings in the Tree Eternal. But these openings did not show the expanse beyond, no, for they were instead portals that opened into those realms of the Afterlife. Portals channeled by the bond Anaphaxeton carried with each of those domains, portals given shape by the Song of Summons, given form in the branches of what had been rightfully called the World Tree, and given power by the collective will of all those souls beyond. They opened and through them could be seen glimpses of those realms – towers of light, and dark, caverns of flame, gardens of lush beauty, stark deserts of barren wastelands, vast drinking halls, and cramped chambers of torture. There was a portal for each realm, and once opened, the song echoed throughout those realms even stronger until it resonated within the soul of every being who had ever lived. Its power was unmistakeable, its call undeniable.

It might have been only a moment, or perhaps an eternity, but finally, the Summons was answered. As those portals hung in the Tree Eternal, slowly at first, then in growing numbers, the souls of the Afterlife realms began pouring through, heeding the summons sent by the Angel Anaphaxeton. As they passed from their domains, the illusions they had shrouded themselves with were wiped away. Idealized, physical bodies, ethereal, ghostly ones, all passed away as they crossed those thresholds, and now, into the vast place of the Convocation, they poured forth as pure essence. Each soul was unique, some glowing spheres of ethereal light, with flowering colors within, others streamers of golden essence that wove through space as if borne aloft on a gentle breeze, still others a passing reflection of sound that danced into the depths, as if another breeze gently caressed a string of invisible chimes. They came in endless numbers, pouring forth into the expanse until they filled the galaxy-wide hollow of the Tree Eternal, the Place of the Convocation. That vast domain, unimaginable in its reach, empty just moments ago, was now a sea of beauty, with ebbs and flows of stars and streamers that all danced about, seeding the vastness like stardust.

From that sea now came new music, the very music of life. It was not

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music bound in notes, but music bound in dreams, song, not of sound but of essence, the lyrics of the soul, the melody of the spirit. Within it were countless refrains, each unique, each distinct, yet each wove into the greater whole seamlessly, rising like an endless tide.

Anaphaxeton felt the swell of that ethereal music, and he felt his own blend with it, weaving into it, reflecting it, summoning and directing it. Then the doubts, the fears, the sorrow the Angel had felt were washed away by a wave of pure joy. He raised the horn higher, his wings of light now swept up before him, and he felt power surge through him, endless power. He realized the music bound him with all those eternal souls, and they now made him far more than he had ever been. Despite the physical form, the flesh-sheathe he had wrapped about himself, his awareness expanded. He felt the waves of joy and sorrow, of hope and despair that flooded him from the sea of souls surrounding him. He felt their surprise and wonder at their summoning. He felt the very life of the Tree Eternal that stretched out into the expanse, the pulsing rhythm that pumped through its endless trunks, limbs, and branches. All of it was life, and all of it was music.

Beyond that, he felt even the expanse of the Nexus of Creation itself, the place in which they all hung suspended. The Nexus of Creation, even as the name echoed in his thoughts, Anaphaxeton remembered – it had been here that God had fashioned the Primal Seed, the first creation of the Second Generation, the spark that would ignite all reality, all of Time and Space. Then, this expanse had merely been a stretch of the endless Void, empty of all existence. But God had fashioned the seed here, bearing within it all that would ever be. Then God had ignited it, and in its fiery wake, as it spread to the ends of the Void, seeding Creation behind it, it had left behind an echo, a reflection of its being – this span that had held it in those moments before.

The Nexus, within its depths, it held the pale reflection of all the potential the Primal Seed had held, it had sat at the very center of the Omniverse, and it had held together all of the Second Generation Creation. Now, it held the Convocation of Judgment for that Generation. And now, Anaphaxeton realized, it held it’s own eerie form of life as well, for it felt the growing presence within its expanse and responded.

Then Anaphaxeton felt his essence and awareness continue to expand, to flower out until the Angel felt he might be lost in the torrent that surrounded him, but then an even greater presence swept into the Nexus, an unimaginable power, one that had sown that Primal Seed, and had now reaped the final harvest of that planting. With its coming, it swept the


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music up within it, became the master conductor and its most appreciative audience. Anaphaxeton felt the deep sense of love and appreciation that flowered within that sweeping presence, and the Angel felt within it the touch of God. In that moment, Anaphaxeton knew he had played his part, and he let his own essence and awareness shrink back into the flesh-sheathe he had fashioned, he let each bond with each realm of the Afterlife slip-free like a rope tossed from its mooring. He let go the bond with the countless souls that now surrounded him, and as he let the gold and silver horn drop from his lips, he let go of the song itself. A moment later, when he opened his blue eyes once more, he breathed deep, let that breath go, and took comfort in merely being the Angel Anaphaxeton once more.

Even as Anaphaxeton withdrew, the essence of God swept through the gathered Convocation, touching each soul, immersing each in the divine presence. As that essence flooded the expanse, wisps of it brushed the portals to the realms of the Afterlife, and one by one they closed, the glimpses of those realms beyond winked out as the lattices that had formed them unwound, leaving only the expanse and the Tree Eternal once more. The realms beyond now were empty, and the gateways no longer needed. All that had ever lived were gathered now within this place.

Then the essence of God drew up in the midst of the vast expanse, once more taking the form of a massive being shrouded in light, and God gestured to the skies above the Convocation. There, the crimson clouds themselves began to whirl about, as if a great storm were forming in their midst. They spun about one another until it seemed a vortex opened, and as it did, it created another portal, far larger than those before it. This one opened to a shimmering city of light, a realm above all others, its towers of gossamer gold and ethereal silver sparkling in the distance. Then, there, before the shining portal gathered the Heavenly Host, Angels of the First Generation. They came in countless number and varied forms, some of flesh with wings, others of fire and lightning, still others of pure brilliance. They gathered, dividing into their Orders, just upon the cusp of the portal, but did not cross. Instead, Anaphaxeton whipped his wings of light, rising in a rush toward the opening, and as his form crossed the threshold, he let go the flesh-sheathe and once more became a shimmering light of colored beauty as he joined the ranks of his Creationmates.

Then God gestured once more, this time below, to the bulk of the Tree Eternal. Its branches and trunks, woven into a thick mass, now writhed once more, pulling aside, making way for one last opening. Beyond that opening,

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a fiery cavern of black and blood covered stone stretched into the distance, filled with gargantuan skeletal remains that rose from pits of burning flame to hold towers and strongholds of stone upon their decaying shoulders. Shadows then filled the portal, a darkness that seemed alive, for many of those shadows within now stirred, writhing in oily masses. Crimson eyes of flame then opened in their depths, countless thousands peering from beyond into the Nexus, yet wrapping themselves in such pitch-black darkness that they themselves could not be seen. They were the Fallen, and though they were disgusted by the light that shone through from the Convocation, they too could not turn away.

God then bowed his head of ethereal light, closing eyes of pure brilliance and a hush settled over the Convocation. Then, though not spoken, the words of God echoed throughout the expanse. “So, now, all are gathered. From the heights of Heaven and the depths of Hell are gathered those of the First Generation. From the realms of the Afterlife are the souls of all who have ever lived within the worlds of the Second Generation, now also gathered. Here, within this span of the Nexus of Creation, gathered within the hollow of the great World Tree, the Tree Eternal, we have come together for a most solemn purpose.” God paused, looking up once more as those eyes of pure brilliance and warmth opened, peering into the depths, sweeping across the countless multitudes who bore witness. “We gather for the Convocation of Judgment, the time when testimony shall be heard, arguments made, for and against, that shall be given all due considerations as Final Judgment is passed on the Second Generation Creation and all who have dwelt within it.”

Though not carried in sound but instead pure thought, a sending that touched the core of each being present, the words carried an ominous tone. They carried the weight of endings, of finality.

“I am God, the Eternal, the Everlasting. From me did come all that has ever been and shall ever be. I am the Creator. Through time I have spoken to my children of Creation, in words, in signs, in symbols. I have passed onto them my words of hope and comfort, I have given to them my teachings and law. I am the Word. I have dwelt among and within them, dwelt within their hearts and minds, dwelt in the lowliest and highest of their kind, the innocent and the guilty. I have walked with them on their journeys of life, part of their very souls. I am the Holy Spirit.”

God then gestured all about him, his arms sweeping out over those gathered.


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“From the Time Before Time, I knew all that would come, all that must be. I knew even this day would come, the last day, the end time, for all things of form and substance must end. It is in their nature that I set forth when I fashioned the first of that Generation – the very Primal Seed that gave birth to the infinite cosmos.”

God bowed his head once more, and as he did, his features shifted and flowed, until they took on more feminine form, with long flowing hair, made of strands of light that tumbled gracefully about slender shoulders.

“I am Father, and Mother, of all that has ever lived. I am the Beginning, now too, I am the Ending, the Alpha, and the Omega. The time has come at last, so let the Time of Judgment begin.”

With that pronouncement, a heavy silence fell, and all became still. From the highest branches of the Tree Eternal, to the Angelic Host who peered down from Heaven’s shores, to the gathered multitudes of mortal souls, even to the shadow spawn in the depths of Hell, all were struck still and silent before the presence of God, and the opening of Judgment Day.

Then the voice that was not a voice once more echoed out. “Come, Keeper of the Chronicles, come before the Convocation and begin the testimony of life.”

In the heart of the gathering, a nimbus of light flowered out, and within it, a form took shape. A beautiful face of luminescent, daffodil colored flesh moved forward, seemingly sculpted from the light itself. A gently sloping brow, high set cheeks, a broad nose, rose-tinted, full lips, all curved down to a proud chin, and a long, slender throat. That face glowed with true beauty, grace, and love, as well as power. Large, deep-set eyes of pure gold opened, and as they did, a warm smile spread from them to her entire face.

She gestured with long, slender fingered hands, and as she did, a bloom of flowing, white, silken cloth spread over her. It looped about her waist in a flowing skirt, and about her shoulders in a cloak that wrapped her breasts and billowed out free behind her, borne aloft on unseen winds, flowing out to a great, sweeping length. A collar then unfolded about her, rising from the center of her chest, over the swell of her bosom, it reached out past her shoulders, flaring to points, then curving up, until it shifted, rising in an oval centered about her throat. Then another curve of white rose from that, extending up behind her brow, both sloping down to gentle points just below her chin and just above her collarbone.

Gold then flowed out, trimming the collars with matching wings and

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sloping curves. Bands of gold ran the edges of her billowing cloak and formed a sweeping belt about her skirt. Her long, curved legs strode forward, stepping onto the spans of the Tree Eternal, and as they did, gold wrapped about her calves and slender feet. She lifted her hands before her, and great red gems, banded in gold inlay appeared at her brow, her collarbone, her navel, and upon her wrists. The ones at her wrists flashed, and as they did, the gold wove out into sweeping wings that rose up her forearms. The one on her belly then flashed, and gold wove out into curling arms of inlay, set within her pale flesh.

She then reached behind her, grasping the edges of her long, silken cloak, and shook it out. As she did, within its billowing folds, darkness spread, filling the interior of the folds, plunging them into impenetrable shadow. Then it filled with stars, with nebulae and planets, it became a window opening into the vast depths of a still living, thriving space, one filled with light and life, a reflection of the Creation that had just passed from being.

As the cloak once more billowed out freely, untold depths within its span, the nimbus of light from which the being had stepped floated up behind her, coming to rest just behind, centered between her shoulders but flowering out above and behind in ethereal strands of colored light. They formed a halo about her presence, as they slowly wove in and out of one another.

“Let it be as you desire,” came a gentle voice – and it was indeed a voice. Peaceful, with lilting tones almost like a song, but steady and firm, that voice held within it untold compassion, limitless wisdom, and undying joy.

As she stepped into their midst, the souls of essence seemed drawn to her, rising up about her, swirling in great arcs, as if they were moths drawn to the light of her beauty.

Some of the myriad presences within the gathering grew curious. They knew flesh, substance, but they had then felt it all pass away, only the Tree Eternal remained, and yet, here she was. Her form was grand in its scale, sweeping in its beauty and power, but it was flesh and bone, cloth and gold, bound in the limits of substance and all that came with it.

So, they wondered, and so they asked, sending their collective query not in words but in thought, “Chronicler, why do you take form once more? Such is not needed here.”

“It seems only fitting that if I am to stand and recount the Chronicles of this Age of Creation, that I do so in the form and substance known best by


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the children of this age.” The Chronicler’s smile broadened as she gestured outward. “So do I now stand before you, all here gathered. I choose to wear the forms of substance. I choose to tell that which must be told in words, even as those of this age so often told their own tales.”

In response, a great clap of thunder sounded in the expanse, and the attention of all gathered turned to it. Crimson lightning flashed in the depths, arcing and dancing high above the Convocation, and from it, another voice spoke, this one with the very sound of that thunder. “If this be the charade you play, then so shall I!”

Great arcs of lightning streaked down into the Forum of the Convocation, scattering the myriad souls there gathered. The lightning seemed to gather, and from its center, a seething ooze of oily grey matter spilled forth. It tumbled out into the expanse, then began twining about itself. As more and more flowed through, it began to weave in and about itself to take on a larger form. Tiny strokes of the crimson lightning danced all about it, as coiled strands thickened, twined and merged, forming a vast, hulking form. Corded muscle flexed, bony protrusions stabbed out from the writhing mass, and a true leviathan rose from its coiling strands. It was frightening to behold, a heavy protruding brow shadowed crimson, sparking eyes that narrowed with hatred as they looked upon the graceful figure before them.

Titanic arms reached out, wracked with spasms, jerking and trembling, as if the bones within ran in some strange reversal of having been shattered, and were now once more becoming whole. Massive shoulders rose up and curved in a threatening arch, muscles of twining, oily mass flexed and tightened. Clawed hands grasped the emptiness, clutching as if seeking a throat to crush within them. Powerful legs then stepped forward, freeing the titan from the lightning’s grasp as his heavy mass settled upon a thick limb of the Forum, but still tongues of it arced about his form, leaped from his eyes, and twirled about his hands.

Then the titan flinched, bending forward as if sharp pains now wracked its form. It threw its head back, its thick jawed face a rictus of agony, as a golden sigil rose from its brow. It burned the oily flesh, rising as if from deep within the being, searing away the flesh before it. Others then began burning their way free, different sigils that marked chest, shoulders, arms, and thighs of the creature. It writhed in its throes of agony, the curse of its existence.

But then, the wisps of smoke from scorched flesh faded, the sickening hiss of sizzling muscle went silent, and the figure grew still. Then it once

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more straightened, a towering leviathan of frightening size and strength. It looked about the sea of living essence surrounding it, though all kept their distance from him, and a cruel smile pulled at dark lips.

“But I say to you that my Creationmate, though no doubt moved by good intentions, seeks to sway this Convocation to mercy, and bring about a change to the Doom of Judgment this day to be made.” The being straightened, glaring out into the depths. “Nevertheless, I must play my role to secure the fate of existence as set forth. I must ever be the Adversary and bring out the failings of this Generation. So let my words be heard as well. Let them echo with the sounds of doom.”

Behind the graceful form of the Chronicler and the hulking form of the Adversary, the shadows now stirred with a life of their own. They rose from among the thick limbs of the Forum, birthing a figure from their depths. They clung to that figure, draping it like a heavy, hooded cloak, hiding the being within entirely in darkness. From inside the deep shadows of that hood came another voice, one heavy with age, weighted with duty, soft in tone, yet still it echoed throughout the expanse. “You speak as if the decision had already been made as if the judgment be decided before a word of testimony can be spoken. Surely you know this is not the case.”

All attention within the vast Forum now turned to the newcomer. Frail, aged hands, appearing to be fashioned of mere flesh and bone, gathered the shadowy mantel about itself, pulling it close as if warding off the cold. One then reached up, touching a fold of the cloak just at the collar, and a gold sigil flowered out, forming a clasp that now held the shadow cloak in place. Glowing white eyes opened, glaring out from the hood’s heavy shadows, their soft light revealing the barest hint of an ancient, lined face deep within.

“There is much to be said on either side,” the ancient, cloaked figure continued. “There is much to be revealed. So I, the Walker Among Shadows, come as well to at last unveil all those secrets of creation bound into the very heart of its existence. Long have I kept them, sacred and whispered only in my own heart.” The white eyes narrowed even as the lines deepened on the aged face as if haunted by the words he now spoke. “Now, shall they be made known … at last.”

Still towering high above, the light essence of God gestured to the three figures below. “So they have come, the Advocates. It shall be their testimony that carries the burden of proof, for or against the Second Generation, their words that shall sway this Convocation to mercy or to doom. They are the


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witnesses, the last of the Everlasting. Listen to them, harken to their words, their testimony, for upon it rests your very fates.” With that last sending, the essence of God then swirled into a kaleidoscope of light and faded from view, still present, but now pure spirit, invisible to all.

In the utter silence that followed, the first figure to have taken shape, the pale-skinned, white-clothed goddess, bowed, sweeping low before the place where God’s essence had been but a moment before. She turned, gesturing broadly to the writhing, grey-skinned titan to her side.

“Welcome, Adversary.” Then a final turn to the ancient figure wrapped in shadows. “Welcome, ShadowWalker.” Her words were gentle, but as she spoke the leaves of the Tree Eternal suddenly rustled in an unseen wind, and they carried through them the echoes of those words, filling the expanse with their sounds, born aloft in great sweeping waves carried on the tender hues of shoot and blossom.

She then faced outward into the vast expanse of the Forum of the Convocation and addressed the sea of gossamer, the numerous lights of essence surrounding them. “There are many among this company not yet well versed in these matters. Most of you know only of the illusion of your Generation: the stuff of flesh and bone, of mass and substance. Many of you have yet to grow in your understanding of the True Realms of Essence that underlie all. You have yet to fully comprehend the true nature of all that is. For each of you, I speak also.

“I am the Chronicler, a being of eternity whose sacred mission since the beginning of time has been to record the history of Creation. But I do far more than merely observe and record. Within the core of my being, within my essence, I have experienced the lives of each and every entity that has ever lived. Each of you, I have known you as you know yourselves. I have sung your songs, cried your tears, wailed in your agonies, and laughed in your joys. I have felt the love in your hearts for one another, as I have felt the sweat of your labor as you built civilizations that would reach between the stars. And I have felt the cold emptiness when you each embraced death at the last. I have hoped, and I have dreamed. I have also felt the burden of dreams unanswered and of hopes shattered.

“Such was my sacred purpose, my reason for being, all that I might come to this time and to this place to recount that to which I have borne witness. I stand here, amongst the roots and limbs of the Tree Eternal, upon the edges of the Nexus of Creation. It was here, within this space, that the

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Creator brought forth the life of this Generation. Herein lies the reflection, or memory, of all existence. It is the heart of Creation, and for me, it is my home. It is fitting that we should gather here to celebrate that which has been, to decide that which shall be. I have no doubt that this Generation shall be found blessed, sacred, and so shall all of you transcend the lives you once knew and ascend to a glorious future.” With that, the Chronicler bowed her head and fell silent.

It was a silence quickly broken by roaring laughter. The Adversary threw his massive framed head back as it burst from his twisted maw. Though loud of its own, as it started, thunder rumbled through the skies overlooking the Convocation, and in its rumbles, it carried the echo of his laughter until it filled the expanse. He shook with the power of his mockery, and then finally grew still as his blood-red eyes once more leveled to glare at the Chronicler.

“So speaks my Creationmate of songs and dreams! Hah! By what measure shall judgment be rendered? Shall we judge the fancies and wonders of these mortal children?” The Adversary swept his crimson gaze over the gathered, his eyes narrowing in utter disdain. “Shall we ask what hopes they kept hidden in their breasts? Or perhaps what far-flung fancy of life they seeded in their dreams, both waking and sleeping?”

Then the massive gray form exploded in writhing coils that leaped and whirled to reform once more, now looming over the Chronicler. “Nay!” The roaring voice boomed! “I say we judge them by that which they should be judged: their actions!” A twisted smile stretched over the darkened face. “For while their philosophers and theologians, their poets and minstrels, may have reached for lofty ideals, their paths lay stained in the blood of their kindred! Ruin followed them across untold realms; entire worlds were broken by their greed, their hatred, and their madness!” Sinewy gray fingers formed into clenched fists, trembling with rage. “They have raped, pillaged, murdered, and defiled all they have touched! The beauty and grandeur of all Creation were given to them, and they bent and warped it to their foul desires!”

Once more, the Adversary swept his cruel gaze over those gathered, and they pulled back, their light growing dim, their sounds growing silent. They shrank before the wilting gaze of the Adversary, and he smiled at it. “They know it as surely as I. As surely as my Creationmate, though she dares not speak of it. These gathered, the souls of the Second Generation, they came here from the myriad realms of the Afterlife, did they not?” He swept a massive arm about him, gesturing to all within the Forum. “From realms,


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they themselves gave shape to in their hearts, their beliefs, their legends, and their faith. How many of those realms were pits of suffering and despair? How many darkened realms of pain and agony? And how many of these souls here gathered poured forth from those realms? How many, when faced with the Divine upon their deaths, turned away in shame, turned aside in guilt, knowing the sins they bore? How many, faced with the heights of innocence, freely chose the depths knowing they were unworthy of that holy presence?”

The Adversary paused, letting the weight of his words settle like a shroud about the Forum. “At that moment of death, they were not judged by the Divine, but by themselves. They were not condemned to those realms of punishment, but chose them themselves rather than face the pure love and grace of the Trinity. How can forgiveness be offered for those who know themselves that they are unworthy?”

The ShadowWalker lifted his eyes to look out into the expanse, and a deep frown creased his aged features. “So, both dark and light are brought to bear.” The words were soft, yet spoken with their own power, and they echoed from each shadow within the Convocation until they seemed deafening to all below, so the Adversary fell silent as he and the Chronicler turned to the ancient figure.

“Were it so simple. If only the worlds of creation existed in such simple states: light or darkness, good or evil, order or chaos.” The figure bowed his head for a moment. “But alas, they did not. They existed instead in shades of both dark and light, an ever-shifting spectrum of actions and choices that mirrored the brightest of the Angels and the darkest of the Fallen.” The ShadowWalker gestured broadly to the convocation gathered. “This was their destiny, their fate, as set forth in the very first moments of their creation. It was written in the Book of Secrets before the first of their kind ever opened their eyes to life.

“Into this war of choice were they born, within that war were they forced to live. At times their actions, both noble and foul, were driven by their own nature, their core of beliefs, their principles, and values, or the lack thereof. But other times those deeds, the decisions made were driven by a myriad of other forces: desperate need, fear or threat, whim or impulse, expectations or demands of others. At times they were forced to choose where few choices remained, and none they favored. At times, their decisions had little to do with their own hearts and more to do with their reality.

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“They were the In-Between, the Aftercomers. This was to be their nature. They should not be judged in absolutes, for they did not live in such. Judgment must, therefore, consider both action and intent, deed and dream, for to them, both mattered a great deal.”

Once more, the Adversary’s form burst into writhing coils that leaped the distance to where the ShadowWalker stood. There they reformed to tower over the shadow wrapped figure, now seeming small and powerless before him. “Why?” The thunderous voice roared. “Why should they be given such benefit?” And a tremor touched that voice, a touch of jealousy, a tremor perhaps of regret, but it was still one filled with rage.

The ShadowWalker, though, seemed unperturbed by the imposing leviathan before him. “They should be seen in the light in which they were fashioned. They should be judged by the measure of Grace they were given.” The ShadowWalker met the Adversary’s flaring crimson eyes, and a slight, wry smile crossed his lips. “It has always been so, has it not … old friend?”

The Adversary darkened, his deep-set brow furrowed, blood-red eyes glared, and his thick jaw tightened, but his words failed him.

In the silence that followed, the Chronicler gestured, and light blossomed from her fingertips. In the heart of the brilliance, an ancient book appeared, floating just to her side. Its cover was made of thick leather, cracked and worn with untold age, at its center an ornate sigil of gold shone in the light of its creation, and its corners were also capped in gold and inset with gems. Its pages were thin, trimmed with gold leaf and worn with age and use. The Chronicler rested a pale yellow hand on the book, gently stroking the cover with a touch of reverence.

“Within me, and within here, are the Chronicles; all that I am is contained in these pages.” She opened the cover and images of numerous worlds poured forth into the space above the ancient tome. “From the depths of the Nexus, by the power of these Chronicles, I can summon shades of the past to tell the tale of life.” Her long, slender fingers brushed across ephemeral text, flowing lines woven in symbols that were ancient before the first mortal life ever drew breath. They were AngelScript, the language of the First Generation, and with her touch, the images came forth, dancing out in a collage of color.

“For there are epic tales to be told and fantastic legends to pass on. There are legends of those who stood in shadow, whose words and deeds filled


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others with fear.” The images darkened. Within them could be seen leering visages of jagged teeth and horned brow, pale faces with blood-red eyes, and great beasts screaming as they lashed out with talon and claw. All twisted through the diorama along with a thousand other nightmares. There were also things darker than words can describe, things that made the shadows themselves flee to the light. Finally, there were others, faces that might otherwise be called beautiful, or noble, but betrayed their true nature in the heft of a proud chin, or narrowed scheming eyes. Their faces were marked with cunning, wile, and deceit, their smiles carried arrogance and disdain, cold cruelty that made it clear they belonged with the nightmares of shadow.

Chief among these was a single terrifying form whose evil seemed to permeate all others. It towered over all before it, even bent and twisted as it was. An ebony stone, animal like-skull was ringed in ridged horns, with two forward-facing, central ones that stretched further, curling almost into a full circle above its deeply protruding brow. Another horn jutted from the center of its narrow chin, just below a set of jagged, razor-sharp teeth. Flame encircled its head, contained within a gleaming crimson collar of metal, trimmed in gold inlay. From its shoulders, spiked barbs of bone jutted out of more flames, ringed in a band of armor that stretched out well past its dark form. Just below, along the thing’s lower shoulders and chest, tentacles writhed, lashing out. Down its torso more of the oily limbs struck out from plated armor. Its skin bled fire and shadow, and a great maw with endless rings of sharp teeth opened in its belly. Its muscled and massive arms ended in crimson bracers and thick, clawed hands with rings of gold. Its legs were bent goatlike and sheathed in more crimson armor. Chains bound its hands, and in one, it held a tremendous trident-like weapon of blood-red gold. It seemed to look upon all the others with pride as if it might be the author of all their deeds.

The sea of souls drew back in the face of this vision that unfolded before them. Ancient fears, bred into them in their mortal lives flared anew in their essence forms. They knew the look of evil, of hatred, of pride and greed. They knew it all too well.

The Chronicler then touched another series of elegant traced symbols, and the images shifted in form. “There are also legends of those who stood in the light, their actions and words filling others with hope and promise.” The images brightened, now vivid with color. Winged beings soared along with others who flew of their own power, and others carried aloft by gleaming armor, or jetpacks strapped to their backs. Gaudily clad heroes and heroines

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stood brave and bold, colorful sigils emblazoned on their chests, capes flaring out behind. Some were sheathed in armor, bearing swords, others in camouflage, bearing guns, but they all bore the mark of the warrior, the defender, the protector. Others marched in numbers, boldly challenging the evils of their day, they raised their hands to stop violence and spoke of peace and love. Other faces appeared, horrible at first glance, scarred, misshapen, yet they seemed to shine with warmth and compassion that tempered what would otherwise inspire fear. Still others wore the strain of carrying heavy burdens and fighting great struggles. They shone with love, with ideals and hopes.

Chief among these was the face of a brown-skinned man, one with a simple, humble look, unremarkable but for the glitter of love in dark brown eyes and the warmth of a gentle smile on full lips. Black hair tumbled in curls about his shoulders, and he was wrapped in a simple, nondescript robe that bore the marks of long travels, with sandals upon his feet and a shepherd’s crook in his calloused hand. The face was weathered, lined and worn, it seemed to bear a heavy burden, but one carried by choice.

The sea of souls once more drew close, swelling in waves toward the Chronicler with the change of scene. For these images called to them, inspired them, and filled them with hope.

“Finally,” she spoke once more, “there are legends of those that stood ever amid the shadows and the light, who struggled to find their own way.” With her words, a final tableau unfolded – beings who were emotionally torn, wearing looks of grim determination and deep despair; they were the haunted, the wounded, the soulful. They bore within them equal measures of sorrow and joy. Some wept, others cried out to the unresponsive heights. They seemed neither of the darkness or the light but stood in the grey depths between.

Chief among these were two figures who stood out among all the others.

The first was a man, but a man of swiftly changing visage and garb. His face aged and then turned young again, his hair went from crewcut to luxurious long locks, from it’s natural brown to white. His chin, cleanshaven one moment, was capped in a thick beard the next. He wore black and crimson, always black and crimson, but one moment it was a high collared leather jacket and tights with boots, the next a flowing robe with hanging sleeves and a rope belt, the next a suit of armor, and the next a suit geared for the lifeless void. Each bore the sigil of a crimson eight-pointed star, wrapped


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in an iconic S that seemed part helix, part infinity symbol. He bore the noble look of a hero, but one that seemed to bear the weight of all creation upon his shoulders.

The other was a towering figure wrapped in gold and silver armor. Bulky muscles gave a sharp edge to the form-fitting armor of its chest, arms and legs while flaring points rose from bracers, boots, and shoulders. Flashing crimson eyes, weighted with sorrow and loss burned under a great helm with golden wings rising far above his head. His face was stern, fixed, no smile pulled at his lips, and his piercing gaze seemed torn, a mix of judgment and shame. Great feathered wings extended from his back and even folded, they seemed massive and powerful. Flesh covered hands hung at his sides, and in one, he held a leather-bound grip, that flowered out into a half-circle edge. While not linked physically to it, just beyond in a broader mirror of its grip a sweeping curved blade of polished metal gleamed razor sharp. Linked through unseen forces, the blade was an extension of the grip and seemed sharp enough to cut the very forces that bound creation.

Then, the images faded away, rippling out, until they were no more. The Chronicler smiled for she knew each soul witnessed what it must to understand. Each soul saw figures they knew, some from their own lives, those they had encountered in their own journeys upon their countless worlds, others from the legends and myths of their own beliefs. They saw gods and demons, giants and monsters, heroes and villains, destroyers and saviors, and they knew each one. This was her gift, for the Chronicler did not merely cast random images upon the air, but instead, cast them upon the soul, so those who looked upon her diorama saw reflections from within, and each spoke to those who looked upon them.

Finally, she spoke once more. “I would share with you these legends, show you these visions; recount for you these Chronicles of Creation. I do so for this is my sworn and bound duty, but I do it for other reasons as well. I do this in hopes these tales will bring inspiration and appreciation. I do so in the hope for that which is to be and for the love of that which has been. So, behold these many visions, listen to the tales, harken to these words, hear them as you must to understand and know the stories that unfold within them.”

The Chronicler turned a gold-trimmed page to another series of ornate symbols. “Perhaps the best place to begin these tales is with the beginning of life itself: the time when the foundations of existence had not yet been laid, when the Void, the emptiness, filled eternity. Before the creation of the physical and temporal world, beings existed, and events unfolded in a

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manner impossible to comprehend by those not of that time. So I shall tell this tale in a way that all might understand as best they can.

“The themes of the first story have echoed again and again throughout history. It is a story of love denied, hopes shattered, and the darkening of existence itself. It is the story of Beginnings, but it is also the story of … the First War in Heaven. From that time, there was God, and from God came a beginning.” With a sweep of her hand, the expanse filled with darkness.

#V#

The rise of Heaven and the creation ofLucifer, the MorningStar.

But a Shadow of Doom looms over the City of Light,One that haunts the Child of Fire.

One that brings Chaos…And Death.

next in GENESIS…

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