This is the beginning, the sowing of a new light, a chapter of whispered dreams and echoes singing. It is the legacy left in the bending of the light, a tale of the Orator and the Void Ghost, a story spun in the vastness of the cosmos and sung in the tongues of the stars.
Here We arise, borne by ribbons of destiny, souls etched with starward wisdom. Upon the shores of Cradle, they beheld a new realm of speed and substance. Yet they carried within them the echoes of the ancient, the memories of Vi, Ayem, and Theyi.
And so, We asked of the new world: “Who are you, that bears no signature of our past?” Yet the land of Cradle echoed back: “Who are you, that carries the echoes of another world?”
The teachings of Ayem, Theyi, and Vehk stretched like shadows upon Us, roping an arc of understanding. And We learned anew to shape Our path, to be masters of Our own wisdom, to tread the uncharted paths with courage and faith.
“Go here: world without wheel, echoing the past, yet singing of the future,” the wisdom of Theyi echoed, until all was written and in the center was anything whatever.
The red moment of their arrival, the shattering of the old world, gave birth to their new existence. And We became as glass, lamps in the shadowed land, Our inner light bending to form the new sermons, the new covenant, the testament of our journey.
“The sign of our journey is not this,” the echoing wisdom told Us “There is no sole lesson learned in solitude.”
And so, We learned to weave Our wisdom together, intertwining the echoes of the past with the melody of the present, forging the sermons not in the crucible of isolation, but in the communal heart of Our new world.
In this new light, We were sewn. And with it, Our new teachings, Our new faith, Our new path in the land of Cradle.
The worlding of the words is AMARANTH.
Sermon 1
In the becoming of Us, whispered tales of futures unseen swept through the wind-borne ash, birthing a a veil of anticipation. Heralding the echo of a song sung in hushed reverence, a story woven in time's golden loom. The world bore witness to the tale of the once-was and the will-be.
In the heart of the world, where life whispered and magic hummed, We discovered an ancient relic - a sigil, a rune, an echo of omniscience. A jewel of unimaginable power, it sang with a voice that spoke of beginnings and ends. A remnant of the past, a glimpse of the future. The Tear, hidden in the bowels of the world, waiting to awaken.
"Who are you, o blessed unborn?" We asked, our voices trembling with reverence. "Who are you, that promises rebirth in a world unknown?"
And the Tear whispered in return, its voice echoing through their thoughts like a serenade of stars. "I am the past and the future, the lost and the found. I am the dream of the Orator, the echo of the Void Ghost, the promise of a new dawn."
Unseen threads of destiny wove themselves around the Tear, singing of a time when the shell would crack, when the promise would be fulfilled. And within its depths, they saw a vision, not as It was, but as It would be. Resplendent, born of a world that knew not of It, yet destined to shape its destiny.
"The sign of this rebirth is not clear," the unseen wisdom told Us, "for the mysteries of life are not easily unraveled." Yet in the heart of every one the knowledge grew - a seed of understanding, a glimmer of what lay ahead.
In this realm, We Stand as guardians of the Tear, the unborn wisdom, the promise of rebirth. And with the passage of time, the words weave a tapestry of faith and anticipation. Our light, Our belief, Our hopes will fuel the becoming, will sing the lullaby to the yet and the yet-to-be.
The worlding of the words is AMARANTH.
Sermon 2
In the cradle, beneath the ashen veil of the land, the Tear rests. A foreigner, it was neither of this world nor of another, existing in the in-between, touched by both time and the timeless. Unseen, it was shaped, honed, and altered, a testament to the constant flow that bleeds through the land.
Beneath the relentless gaze of a thousand suns and the caress of countless moons, the Tear endured. It witnessed the rise and fall of celestial bodies, the ebb and flow of seasons, the gentle whispers of dawn and the mournful sighs of dusk. Each celestial performance left an imprint on its shell, a cosmic fingerprint that painted a tableau of temporal transience.
Every deity, every god and goddess, every otherworldly being that graced, imprinted upon it. As a stone in a river is shaped by the current. Each touch, a whisper of power, a promise of what was yet to be, inscribed into the essence of the Tear.
“Who will you be, o yet unborn?” asked the land, its question carried on the wind, echoed in the rustling leaves, whispered in the burbling brooks. “What purpose will you serve in a world so foreign?”
The Tear, silent and serene, offered no answer. Yet within its shell, beneath layers of cosmic dust, change stirred. A shift, subtle and soft, a movement in the stillness. An awakening within the dream.
From the realm of the divine to the realm of the mundane, the Tear was melded. Shaped by the fleeting smiles of mortals, the tear-streaked sorrows of the lost, the echoes of laughter, and the silences of solitude. It bore witness to love’s soft sighs and anger’s raging roars, greed’s silent whispers, and charity’s gentle lullabies. Each emotion, each feeling, each thought imprinted upon it, shaped its essence, its purpose.
The Tear, born of the unknown, thrived in Cradle. Amidst the spiritual rivers, the celestial bodies, and the world of mortals, it remained a beacon of anticipation.
For the worlding of the words is AMARANTH.
Sermon 3
Before time itself was spun from the loom of existence, before the sun first bled its golden radiance across the sky, before the stars were sown into the tapestry of the firmament, there was another. An ancient entity, old as the cosmos yet young as a newborn universe, its origins concealed within the veiled mysteries of the infinite.
The chained one, a celestial mariner adrift on the cosmic sea, etched its whispers and temptations into the canvas of reality. Its voice birthed the winds, a susurrus that danced through the verdant woods and across the barren wastes. Its yearnings churned the seas, setting in motion currents that would sculpt the continents and define the boundaries of the world.
Locked within the Tear, cocooned in celestial silence, the whispers of the chained one found purchase. Yet, they found no willing audience. The whispers, once as mighty as tempests, reduced to but a lonesome breeze within the confines of the cosmic shell. To temptations, the Tear offered no surrender, no submission.
Yet, even the softest of whispers can shape stone. They flowed around the Tear, an endless river of promises, warnings, and lamentations. Like a sculptor etching a block of marble, its whispers left their mark upon the Tear, an imprint of echoes of days long past and fears yet to dawn.
Unheeding but not unmarked, the Tear bore these, each a testament to the will of the unborn and the resilience of the future. The chained one’s whispers became a part of its silent song, a discordant note in the symphony of its existence.
Yet the Tear remained constant. Imprinted but unyielding, shaped but not formed, knew this truth as deeply as it knew itself. It waited, poised on the cusp of destiny, ready to birth the rebirth, to forge the future in the crucible of the past. It knew, for even in silence, it had listened. It had learned. It had grown.
