Angels cry out from the deep in old tongues your people no longer care to learn. This is what they warn of, in that lost tongue: A place which contains everything, yet is comprised of nothing. That is the mist. An inner #space which stretches to no limit, whose nooks belie ravines and in which the distance between molecules is as similarly vast as that between particulates or heavenly bodies. The place where the third Ark resides, between gray folds, between molecules, between minds which could never be filled, only continually imagined and debated, populated with a host of items and nether-objects to whom the material planes were no better home. Who would claim dominion? There are few #brave enough, and none fool enough. Only a creature born of mist can stride it, so it was written and so it is. Only a handful of souls birthed into cold dusk earn names. And from those, only a few rise. Only a few dive the deeper pools, only a few thrive. [You] have many names for [us], those who, from time to time, saddle mares, set sights and summon nerve, plunging headlong into #nightmare nothing, shields set forth, eyes shut tight against the gale. They ask nothing in return. #IDEAPATHY #lore #reallifefiction
