The Pit of Raeben; The Final Lie of Gelon Part I

By Kenneth Paul Jones

The Pit of Raeben is a tale told in turn by three enlightened trees. This is the first of three parts describing how the oldest of them was laid to rest.
The Pit itself was dug by the Clan Destined being known as Raeben; an entity with a penchant for naming things. Drawn by the beauty of a quietly spinning planet, Raeben reaches out and touching it he declares, "I will call you Earth."
The touch of Raeben though slight is not without consequence as it initiates the evolution of Man. Earth suffers and Raeben looks for a means by which he might tame Man's reckless behavior.
Unwilling to touch earth a second time, Raeben creates a sister planet on the opposing side of Sol upon which he might better study Man. Besides the enlightened trees, Raeben populates his new world with three human-like species of mentors: the determined Mekhali warriors; the gifted, though humble, Kessl; and the very social elves of Zarust.
Tarot, a wiser being of the Clandestine, obliges Raeben to cease his meddling once he has finished populating his world. Tarot makes Raeben swear he will not make even a single change after his world is complete... unless he does it as a man and with his own two hands.
The greatest secret amongst the universe is that a Clandestine can never refuse an oath. This is the First Law of the Clan Destined; the second being: one is as one asks of another.
Raeben then digs the Womb of Areth with his own two hands and leaves. Unfortunately, treachery has been unleashed upon Areth; his designs fall awry and it does not take long for the womb to turn into a pit of seething chaos.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kenneth Paul Jones
• Release date: Aug 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465767790

Kenneth Paul Jones

Kenneth Paul Jones lives in Victoria, BC, Canada where he has worked for Canadian Blood Services since 1997.

Book preview

The Pit of Raeben

The Final Lie of Gelon

Copyright 2013 Kenneth Paul Jones

Published by Kenneth Paul Jones at Smashwords

(As imparted by R.B. Utaye)

Cover Art by Renee Jacqueline Audy

For Lxndra

Tanary se ktyoe

All characters, places and events are fictional

regardless of how parallel our universes sometimes seem.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

The Cotyledon (the first seeds; preface/epilogue)

Grovelstock (the roots/prologue)

Of Raeben and Earth

Areth

Tarot

The Seeds of Awareness

Earth

Reah

Elo

Zarust

Staggerwood (the bark)

The Firstborn

Name Calling

The Call of Mytya

Of Twins and Twin Trees

The Heart of Cyren

White Tears of Heaven

The Tail of the Steamraven

The Vengeance of Winged Creatures

The Naming of… and The Last Words of Cyren

The Marshwood (the cambium)

Turning Pages

The Return of Cyren

Triumphant in the Black Deception

The Cotyledoni

(An Epic-log of Sorts)

And so the quest-i-on is put to The Reader: regardless of where we stand, inked upon a page or outside of it evaluating the merit of its opening line, are we not all characters bound? For only within such rudimentary bindings does limitation give way to shape, allowing the first inklings of ourselves to become impressed by our own supposed brightness. Already your uniqueness falls apparent; though, ironically, it must be said that this is nothing new, for the humankind have always cherished moments idolizing their singular identities.

What does beg exception is your mastery of interpretation. Where other characters materialize as beings obsessed by qualities of grammar; you tread nimbly around such rhetoric, delving more in comparison from all that was not so firmly put to paper. Let me speak plain; outside of collective, painfully human, reassurances we do not all breathe in unison. How we imbibe; how we assimilate; how we reap; remains no less diverse.

Like night and day, other inescapable divergences lie between us all. Upon Tarmose we do not read: we absorb. Within the Ghinternaigg, knowledge is gathered and shared through the impartation of memories and visions. Upon Elo, necessary communication is spurred primarily by instinct. Amongst the Unnicean Astral Ocean, where the vast majorities interact via telepathy or vapor-light, reading is an art form long since deemed archaic.

Do not misinterpret me, for intentions lie only in expressing how rare a talent it is that you boast. Being both human and a Reader, I grant you at least a one in 6.25 billion chance of being The One So Sought—slight though it may be. That said, even should you prove to be The One, it remains highly unlikely that you will recognize this aptitude. How could you? How often do any of us realize a pithacle of consequence… ahead of the rock bouncing off our wooden block? Well, wooden for me I’m guessing, seeing as you’ve read this far. Sorry… wood I have stood; a stick in the mud.

How different and not so different we are; me swaying upright, unfurling buds of newfound optimism—while you rest upon a page; characterizationally irrelevant. The quest-i-on now is whether this smack of salt might even register upon lips so pensively pursed… how splendidly apropos is this—for many have proposed just such an assertion to be the very essence of The Quest. This trickle of sap, or what you perceive as perspiration, suggests loftier boughs still lie within reach.

So let us leave lingering to the consternation of blighted burls and tread beyond trepidation. Let us, you and I, limb in limb, bend this branch until its stratum of fracture. Forgo procrastination! Weigh profundities here and now with me upon this great listing iceberg—granting credence unto the notion that you may indeed be The One So Sought. Though, as you undoubtedly already suspect, all evidence lies upon our winding path ahead.

Did I mention it is never by accident that I use the word lie? I should have. To be completely pithful, I asked my mother to render this tale, but she refused, evoking that some stories grow beyond the grasp of bark and can only be envisioned through the eyes of those captured within. But, should that be true, then what of The Reader? And what of the fate of this tale had I not cut free those binding roots imposed upon me by my kindling kind?

I did not sprout slow whittled. Let it be sown: I have harvested my share, hoarded all I could—but I have reached my limbitations. The pith of the matter is, unlike the aghast majority of my kinsfolk, I am unwilling—no; unable to bear this blackened burl any longer… and certainly not alone.

Though, do be clear, it is at your peril that I share these chronicles… and, expect to find little in the way of answers—for the quest-i-on ever changes. Therefore, should you one day find yourself on the opposite shore to this journey; do not expect to feel satiated, but rather more parched than ever before. Roots rummage, buds blossom, while leaves unfurl but to capture light and fall free. And fall free they will, for the nourishment of new seeds—and new beginnings.

Every supposed end is frayed with strands of forgotten harmonies; each harmony promotes new accord unto the symphony; and thus its opus becomes greater inspired. There has only ever been one ultimate conclusion. You know it, for as the rising of the sun ever has it been so. Like fertile soil moistened by glacial streams… hmmm, perhaps not. I know… like crisp bread dabbed in warm, thick gravy even the most hereditary resolve has no alternative but to melt within the perfect medley of circumstance. Begging the question, does every plot impede upon the next? Implying: are not all rings somehow intertwined? Point being, if all things are connected, including black holes and shadows, was it not inevitable that we be eventually pulled free of the whole and fed unto this quest?

The pith of it is: bark, rock, fur, scales, stem or skin… we are all fodder sustaining a seemingly bottomless collective. While new suns wake to stretch, christening worlds with the enthusiasm of dew, a most delicate balance hinges your world to mine—skin to bark; rings to fingers; heart to pith. Not dissimilarly, all intricacies attract their contrasting mate: bliss bonds to woe; love unto hate; with hope being chained, most unforgiving, unto despair. The root of Life is struggle; and Freewill but a branch… and framework supporting every enchantment to life. For one lone constant stands apart amongst such intangible simplicities, exhaling with every breath the quest-i-on: what next?

I must not allow inscription to stray any further from paths looming before us… for upon one of these, most assuredly, we all do lie. We all flow like letters on a page—ink; black, bold, dripping with life. A vast canvas awaits… and yet to be written is all we might aspire to be.

* * * Thus ended a Trilogy of Trees * * *

I apologize; I tower in disarray. While you anticipate a beginning to this narrative I myself await eagerly its conclusion—and should you be The Reader, all my hopes lie in you! I pray they are not misguided for much have I risked. Did I mention that it is never a mistake when I use the word lie? Yes? Well, what about coincidence? Have I told you it simply does not exist? I hope so. I should have.

And so it is neither by chance that you’ve fallen upon this compendium, for only a moment ago did the Grand Cosmos Quejil end, and a judge called out for the talents of a Reader. ‘Small worlds’ or ‘go figure,’ I believe, is how you would portray it. Perhaps things are enfolding as they should after all. Time will tell.

Of late, upon your planet Earth, I have taken to dreaming. Most pithfully, I fear they are likely visions sent by my mother. Last night I envisioned Hartmir; eldest son of he who so quickly became Ossimer. Hartmir was fretting, pacing back and forth alone. Dank and musty though it was, still I sensed a tincture of hope. There was an unsettling force trembling in the walls… an earnest devotion, if you will, lurking within the beams and timber enclosing him. A glutinous tear gravitated from my porous extremities, for Hartmir stood in the Seventh Shrine surrounded by the bones of my father.

I waited and I watched… as was the way of my kindling kind. The balance scale before him shifted to the East and fell hard—even though half the sand had not been added. He dipped a finger to test for dampness, swirling the sand uneasily. It was dry as bone.

Instinctively, his other hand ran the length of blade sheathed at his side. Soothed momentarily by the touch of cold steel, Hartmir took a deep breath before resuming his paces. I heard his thoughts quite clearly for they were not divergent to my own. He alone held the last sibling sword of the Western Kingdoms.

Reportedly, Kyre now held seven of the twelve forged of Solareth, and, though he hadn’t taken any by force, one couldn’t help but wonder if the Black Heart Curse wasn’t, once more, beginning to smolder. What if the rumors were true? What if the Blackwitch was soon to return?

Though still as yet only a dream I cannot help but feel the prick of the quill. If only I might sigh, shrug or walk away. No, for me there lies but one comfort. All things being but a matter of time, I know there shall come a day when this script creases lines of smoother parchment. Not paper, not wood—but those buttressed and pinioned by mortar, rendering it heartwood and the telling of it—inevitable. The writing is on the wall, I believe to be how it is said here on Earth.

Once again I deviate, for that shall flourish as Nyan’s tale whereas this one is mainly derived from her knoll mate, Gelon. It stems from the tinkering of the Children of Light—or what you might perceive as angels. I’m afraid for far too long have I refused to shed leaves and now my bark swells to the verge of blister.

Following in the rootsteps of my father Gelon, I admit to straying from protocols of guardianship deemed sacred to our kind. So hopefully now intentions fall clearer; this is not a tale about me, my father Gelon, or even my mother Nyan—though neither do we profess to stand innocent amongst its volume of leaflets. No, we are the stewards of the tale—or at least we were supposed to be. It’s become all too evident that defiance runs hereditarily through sap and blood of similar viscosity. One day, common knowledge will attest that it was only by your contribution that this archive found any degree of validity.

In my own defense, I stand before you no less than ever I’ve stood. I am after all but a tree, and as such I stretch my boughs wide and accept whatever cost of narration might befall. Skin, leaves, bark—I will forfeit what I must. Have no misconceptions, fact or fiction; all rings within me will be unwound.

The unfurling chronicle is essentially a medley of narration, stemming from all manners of creatures—and in this, one could afford some patience, for oft times it was neither awarded freely nor rendered in a form easily decipherable. It has also been kindled that the narrator of each segment does not always stand immediately clear; and while there may be some pith to this, be at ease, for identities will ignite in due course.

Be cautioned, this is not some windswept faerie’s tail. It is a tale of perseverance—of hope and worthy deeds; and, like every endeavor of worth, it has not been bought without a heavy debt. Then again, I can’t help but wonder—what need would there be for gallantry or hope if not for atrocity’s bane?

It seems autumn accompanies The Reader, for already I feel my sapwood congealing, clumping thicker and colder with every gust of overly pretentious air. Again be warned, these rings tighten as the noose—in fact the tale swells so ripe within my rings it is no small wonder I manage to contain it at all.

Welcome to this pen in hand

Where ink blot thoughts emerge to land

And metaphors may seek to find

A sanctuary phrased amongst like minds.

Welcome to this chance to gain

A retrospect not so insane,

A fleeting glimpse, small recognition:

This pen scribes skin with each page written.

Photo-sin-thesis! I expel random thoughts. I think you call this farting; though exuviating, in my case, would be more precise. Being that I find myself upon your planet Earth, I believe the appropriate custom is to now beg pardon.

I must admit I am somewhat confused as to the proper affectation to apply—there are so many. Whoops! Oh my God! It was the dog! I can only guess as to which might be deemed most appropriate. This brachium slip permeates from my Neth’r Rings and reeks of my mother, Nyan. It is a Song of the Fatwood, stemming from her earlier days when she too spent time on Earth absorbing the banter of Man.

Welcome to my solace—my doom

Where crafted lines converge to swoon

Or perhaps just hang in hollow halls

Like petroglyphs on crumbling walls.

I cut another tale wind! Bless you! Ay caramba… but, as much as I might love my brand, it’s paramount that we hurry. I am cold and hungry. The scouring winds of your planet appear adamant to reshape the grooves of my unbound spine. I stand alone. The tears of the Clan Destined will not find me here. I will not be christened unto any distinct advantage. No—if there be any hope it rests exclusively in you. Tread carefully; trust no one, for things read rarely as they are.

"Send me the talents of A Reader!"

I heard it plainly; that is what was said. Even now explicitness bends what few boughs of reason remain.

I suppose little is there more to say and while I most certainly do wish you the best of luck, far less am I willing to leave solely to chance. Therefore, I now release this delicate anecdote unto the winds of Earth. I wonder, is this what is referred to as venturing out on a limb?

I must confess I’m not entirely sure any remain who might still heed the Solitary Speech: the dusty gossip of avalanching stone; mossy tones whistled by reed grass; the simple natter of a babbling brook. Then again, all one can ever do is try. As Daphne decreed, eventually all leaves find their way to fall. Reg had heard. I remember well, for he recited the words almost as purposely as Cyren:

"And if it be gods, send gods

And if it be angels, then send us angels

But if it be monsters, so let it be—

Send monsters and I shall greet them no less!"

I recall how every leaf strained, pinned motionless, so they might discern every word. He was but a lad. Reginald Bartholomew Utaye. It wasn’t by coincidence that he was named after me… no, we were fated to share counsel. Did I mention there is no such thing as coincidence? Not while sap and blood endeavor to flow. I definitely should have—do remind me later should I forget.

Forgive me, for I am presently half-absorbed by imperatives impossible for you to envision; forcing chronological order, for the time being, to wander ever evasive. The time being…how ironic, for we are both time beings—are we not?

It is no small task we’ve embarked upon, and amongst your quarry of descriptive words I find few capable of rendering the full degree of urgency necessitated now. So many characters have been stirred into action, though not so many that stand harmonious in time. A select few of these characters seek guidance, though there are others whose only wish is to impose gravities much further advanced within the tale. To stall time is no small thing, but for you, exceptions must be made.

Should you be The One, we must first begin by unearthing a bottomless pit— a pithism, rooted deep in the past. Never fret; the box of Pandora was always ajar. Thus it is only a matter of time before, ashes to ashes, we all fall in. As the soothsayer Mangeline presaged, Like Helen unto the Dioscuri; there were three born of fortitude; and one of three shall read more fey even fathered betwixt such shades of grey.

And that is whom Lord Krawl seeks, at present, even upon this very planet! Only recently has he lost one of those he felt certain to be of the three and sorely is his patience spent. His guard surrounds him. All of them on edge, mostly for being unsure of whom it is exactly they seek.

Stretching out my limbs, I can see Lord Krawl plainly. His unwavering eyes strike first, far blacker than any crow; they strip dignity from all they encounter. The features of his face are chiseled sharp and devoid of emotion. He glowers like a slate statue, a cruel god boundless in his thirst to oppress. The self-inaugurated poster boy of malice, he is the nemesis to all things vulnerable, an impenetrable barrier of incomparable apathy. They say falsely that he casts no shadow, that his grim demeanor denies any opportunity for light. Mangeline attests that every step he has ever taken is wholly retraceable, all the way back to the day he crawled from his mother’s festering womb.

"He entered our world entwined by shadow, his infant black eyes struck wide. I’ll never forget him being passed into his mother’s waiting arms for his two dead siblings slid free in the same instance. It wasn’t until their knotted umbilical cords were cut free from his tiny fists that he ceased thrashing and did cry his first defiant breath. We stood in a credulous circular stupor while his fetid breath swarmed us like an inescapable blanket, dulling our senses. When at long last they were regained, we discovered the newborn suckling upon the dead flesh of his smothered mother. The room was sealed though sometime thereafter used as a torture chamber. It proved itself unfailing in extracting secrets from traitors and spies. As for him, being just a babe, innocence was unduly awarded him. To this day every breath he exhales bids a new foul cloud to form in the skies. The same grey smog has ever marked his steps, following behind like an obedient dog while attracting all that’s amiss in the worlds."

He stands ever so proudly, his hair rippling in a single long braid, excessively oiled in perfume. Secured by nine crimped onyx spheres, diminishing proportionally in size, the glistening braid draws light from all corners only to see it extinguished, in turn, by the cold black globes. A slick shadowy cloak crowns Lord Krawl’s shoulders making them appear exceedingly wide; an illusion furthered by the clay colored coat peeking out from beneath. Tightly buttoned, it boasts of leather so heavy his movements squawk like gangling saplings sewn together by the wind. His cheekbones rise haughtily, threatening to burst from his sallow skin. I can hear the clack of his boot heels now; that self-assured stride. He pauses in a moment of deep deliberation. He is speaking. Listen.

"Perhaps it’s time we employ the help of those able to smell the very marrow of that which we seek," he says, tapping a poster thumb-tacked to a pole. One of his cronies—named Vandetta—pushes his way closer. He cocks his head comically at the same crooked angle as the flyer.

The flyer advertises a movie called Blood Boutique. Its picture, most unceremoniously, depicts two vampires about to gorge on their hapless, barely-clad female victim. Vandetta speaks, his eyes scrutinizing the flyer as if it’s riddled with hidden clues.

"How can we be sure they still reside on this planet? Don’t tell me these humans are infatuated by their own slaughter." There is nothing overly striking about Vendetta, save for his eyes which are utterly expressionless. Lord Krawl’s own dim eyes close, and tilting his head upwards, he takes a deep sniff of air in through his nose. A perverse smile forms on his paper thin lips.

Oh, they’re here all right—and close by! I find their stench no less than that of their Gorgon cousins! He sniffs the air once again before pointing at a decrepit looking theater across the walk.

"In fact, there’s a whole coven of the blood-sucking vermin holed up in there! He tugged the corners of his collar up and sneered. Pull on your silver chain mail, boys. I hear their bite is a real bitch… He pauses. Unless that was their Gorgon cousins… I must admit I was never that keen on Metamorphic Genealogy."

Vandetta spins on his heels, storming towards the condemned theater. He kicks one of the huge, weathered-looking doors. His knee high boot disappears through a red and white sign: "Danger! Demolition Zone: No Entry!" He proceeds to kick it several more times until an opening large enough to squeeze through is achieved. There is no need however as the door’s rusty hinges give way and the remains of it crash to the ground. He tosses the rubble aside, rushing into the dark forbidden corridor awaiting him.

"Well don’t wait for us," mutters the one referred to as Neke, dragging a hand slowly over his stubbly head and all the way down to his white bristly chin.

"And I query whether he has even the slightest intimation how he might forge such a reticent camaraderie anyways," added Gad. Though Gadryk Lark was nearly a foot taller than his brother Nekelis he still fell well short of Lord Devious Krawl. They wore black, as did all Krawl’s cohorts but what set them apart from the rest was their silky white hair, Gad’s flowed wildly down his back while Neke’s was cropped short like the quills of a hackle hog. Both had pointy beak noses with Gad’s eyes being placed preposterously close on either side of his.

"Slightest what—where?"

"Never mind, Neke. Lord Krawl said, his thin lips curling back quite impossibly. He broke into stride. You will soon see Vandetta has things well in hand—the least we can do is try to keep up. He has his own way—Vandetta—and, though I admit his hospitality can lack cordiality at times, his success rate speaks volumes—something you could take a lesson from, Gad, for being entirely devoid of even the subtlest heuristics, your pompous manner fatigues me immeasurably."

Upon entering the unlit playhouse, they find that Vandetta has already achieved an audience with its disgruntled vampire inhabitants. Never withdrawing his glare from the hissing coven, Vandetta speaks slowly and purposely.

"I’ve presented our terms and—still—await acceptance."

"You’ve no right to ask anything of us! You! That one! I recognize your filthy scent! Spat a grizzled-looking male through twisted, salivating fangs. He pointed a long crooked finger at Lord Krawl. Your blood flows from the Houses of Tarock and Autolycus! We owe you no favors. Leave us while the door remains ajar… leave us while you might."

Lord Krawl grimaced; conveying his displeasure while his crew prepared for the worst as this generally meant the negotiation period had ended. Shockingly, he sighed and then smiled, showing the majority of his perfectly straight teeth. He spoke, his voice echoing with surprising kindness from the balcony above.

"We have not come seeking repayment of a debt; we’ve come offering terms for a sweet and savory alliance. Rest assured this proposal should be accepted with no less vigor than a feast of peasant blood between you. We’ve come in good faith. We do not deny being in need of your services, and because of that we’re willing to overlook certain things—such as your miserable means of existence." Lord Krawl pushed the last nine syllables through his teeth, not bothering to hide his disdain. He pressed two tightly clenched fists into his chin.

He continued: Let us not mince words. Your future has arrived; recognize it for it stands before you as sure as Garm guards Helheim. Look in my eyes and see the truth of the matter. You dwindle in the doldrums of a bygone era while I ride the coming storm of Hraesvelg. The time has come to set cloaked and daggered teeth aside. It is judgment day and high time we assess your place in this world—HONESTLY. He smiled again and his voice returned to a less hostile level….

"Few indeed are the planets to which you might run; and far fewer those that would bid you stay—not that any of you would make it so far." He stepped casually from the safety of his brethren, pushing his way past Vandetta towards the line of seething vampires. They chorused venomous warnings though Lord Krawl took no notice.

"It is a most peculiar place—this world of Man, he mused. Surely you must know it better than most, for even though wrought of the undying flesh you find your species dragged, faster and faster, towards those archaic cairns offering you naught but eternal monotony. It is from such inflexible corners that hypocrisy rises, and with it the prospect of absolute death—your death; your demise." He touched a sole finger to his lips, feigning a look of genuine concern.

"And so I ask you, as much for your own sake as mine, will you not choose to endeavor? Heed the wishes of a changing world; adapt them to serve your own insatiable cravings! I CARE NOT—but I must know right now—will it be my terms or your annulment?"

The same vampire that had pointed at Lord Krawl earlier moved closer, hissing loudly to display undeniably daunting upper and lower fangs. It spoke in a foreign, slurred tongue, and black spit sputtered down the pointed ridge of its chin.

"Your terms? Annulment? And what’s to stop us from gorging upon your own soft flesh—"

Thwack—whump! Its severed head fell spurting to the floor followed by the crumpling mass of its body. Lord Krawl stepped neatly aside, his cloak closing as quickly as it had parted, leaving only trails of thought to mark the path his sword had taken. Raising both empty hands in a gesture of peace, he spoke above the din of hissing, spitting vampires while his henchmen approached with swords drawn, ready to protect their fearless commander.

"Is that your answer then? he asked calmly, wiping a fleck of blood from his sleeve with a gloved hand. Did he blather for all of you? Is this to mark the end—of the once great vampire race? So be it; I care not; your breath is foul; your teeth crooked―"

"We accept your terms," croaked a voice. Lord Krawl turned away, tapping a finger against his lips and looking as though he might be choosing something from a dinner menu.

"Vandetta, do me a favor and open those blinds a touch. Oh ― and place this on the sill." Lord Krawl put the toe of his boot beneath the decapitated head and rolled it toward Vandetta, who picked it up without hesitation. Carrying it to the window, he placed it on the sill. He’d barely opened the blind before he wisely jumped backwards as the dripping head burst into flame.

Seconds later the flames diminished, and the blackened glob ruptured into twisted plumes of smoke. Vandetta reached to protect his face, at the same time noticing wisps of smoke trailing away from his own hands. He stepped clear of the light fissure, all the while rubbing his fingers gingerly to cleanse them.

"I said we will accept your terms," begat the voice again. Lord Krawl turned to the vampire that had spoken.

"Good, good; it’s about time we let cooler heads prevail. Find those we seek and you shall soon be rid of us. Be quick for you’ll find our hospitality wanes in time." He turned and walked out leaving all save his shadow staring after him.

* * *

But that is a tale detached from roots engaging us now, and besides, what concern is Lord Krawl of yours? Tis a fair question. Have you ever noticed how sometimes things present themselves more peculiar than perpendicular? Then again, standing but a tree, such is often my point of view. Consider this for example: I bask in your sun, the opposing side of mighty Sol, and see little difference. It remains an unparalleled power splitting parallel universes. It is supreme; it is magnificent.

Parallel universes? Perhaps not; they are different and yet each lies parasitically hinged unto the other. It is said that on the farthest reaches of Tarmose, the planet of my forefathers, there is a great and treacherous iceberg known as Nebear. It is upon the tip of this that we now stand. As I gaze outwards from this pinnacle, wholly engulfed by fruition, my own margins become apparent and I see all that I am; all that I’ve become. I am no less than Akimbo, more silhouette than substance, an ever-looming shadow reaching for all I might aspire to be. Is that hindsight or foresight? I cannot tell.

Welcome to an acrostic sea

Of hopes to share a melody

Though sometimes I confess to hide;

Leave paper white and thoughts inside.

Low flying ducks! Pull my tendril! I hope that suffices—or would a grander expletive be in order? Damned Neth'r Rings! Sorry, my pitch salivates with anticipation. Take warning; the beginnings of this chronicle unwind from these very same Neth'r Rings—though be at ease; Neth'r Rings are not necessarily lies. They are archived as fiction only because they have been deciphered from the windings of another. Rest assured; they have been balanced by whatever verifications might be found.

The time being runs short; we must forego hesitation. Pull your chair so close you feel the shudder of my quaking leaves. For all I know, you may be The Reader—character and pragmatist, both predator and prey. Know that it is only by your input and scrutiny that this volume will ever attain any measure of closure.

To embark is simple. We need only venture out further upon this Tip of Nebear; for it is only at the farthest reaches of knowledge that imagination might be found to lie. It is here that the Clandestine shall one day find the answer to their Quest; though until that day their quest remains as ours—unfinished. And so I will begin where it all began, in the cosmos of time, when Earth was but a seedling herself.

Grovelstockii

A finger traced the face of Earth

And moved an axis towards rebirth.

Waters fled to find their crowns

Exposing lands in foliage gowns…

Of Raeben and Earth

Within the vast galaxies of infinite space, there was a very small universe which held and caressed a delicate little planet. The tiny planet was balanced precisely upon its own axis and revolved in unison with the rest of its universe. The universe was the guardian of the planet and together their design was entirely harmonious, being one and the same in purpose.

Amongst this small universe were other planets, moons and stars. They also sought to uphold the balance of harmony. The moons and the planets and the stars rotated and orbited, circled and spun. All were consumed by their own function, with only one of them realizing the beauty of the patterns they wove through the heavens—the tiny planet.

It traced and mapped their courses over and over in its heart, marveling at the magnificence and perfection of their design. The tiny planet reveled in its bed of synchronicity and its delight and devotion to its placement did not go unnoticed.

A great star was drawn by the tiny planet’s contentment, and the other moons and planets made way so that the great star might look upon it. The great star was so moved that it bathed the tiny planet with its light, allowing the little planets joy to be beheld from afar.

All in the universe were affected by the abundant joy radiating from the little planet, including a baby moon which fell into an enchantment. Abandoning its own placement within the universe, it plummeted to the tiny planet where, unable to be dissuaded, it began circling it in a swoon.

But let it be known that the great star and the baby moon were not the only ones touched by the bliss emanating from the tiny planet. For the vastness of the galaxies was unfathomable and the numbers of entities held within these realms could neither be counted. Amongst these entities was a being that later came