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Chapter Two — A dream
The Builder had built. But it was not... whole.
Civilisations crumbled before they were able to blossom, the realms were in a constant cycle of turmoil and destruction. Some found pockets of calm and happiness that lasted for years, whole generations even, but all met their ultimate fate - born into worlds that saw their end approaching and incapable of changing it they perished. As if it all was predestined and part of a cosmic game with rules so arcane, that not even the Seers were able to understand or predict them. They also perished.
The Builder had overlooked some detail, something so crucial that no matter which way the intricate web of the Builder's thoughts manifested as physical reality it just didn’t seem right. Something was missing. This was not the Builder’s dream.
So the Builder fell asleep once again, resting in the shadow of the All-Mother, gathering strength, dreaming a new dream.
Soon the Builder will rise again and build. Something new. Something better. A world that can grow and blossom.
Chapter One — The Beginning
In the beginning there was a song, quiet and sombre, barely noticeable and drowning in the sheer volume of Ur’s encompassing presence.
Ur, the All-Mother, the All-Being, a goddess to the gods of gods, in whose lap all existence, all worlds are gently cradled until they are no more and have to be born anew. Older than the song, indifferent to its melody, but yet resonating in cosmic harmony with every single one of its eon long notes.
Did the song awake The Builder or is The Builder the song itself? This question has been a point of debate, content and academic dispute in the stuffed, candle-lit studies of the academies of Keskella for hundreds of years, one that has led to wars, lost friendships and much philosophical ire and headache, but one that is not important to our story for now. All that matters is that The Builder rose and they began to build.
The Builder’s thoughts manifested one plane of existence over and through one another, weaving them together like the ribs of the finest basket only the good people of Valhalla knew how to make, until they were whole. Mountains rose, formed valleys, valleys filled with waters, grinding the mountains down to dust and turning them into plains, only to repeat the cycle until it was perfect in The Builder’s eyes.
Between the planes shadows formed, shadows so dark that no light would ever penetrate them or chase them away, slowly gnawing at the edges of the planes, but necessary in all of their evil and destruction. The Builder did not fear the shadows, because all things must come to an end, so they can be build anew and renewed.
The Builder was awake and sleep turned into a faint memory, just like the passing notes of the song that woke them into the All-Being’s watchful eyes.
There was so much to build.