The unbearable heat rising through the cracked floor of the immense subterranean cavern, dimly lighting the face of a perishing god. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, while he swayed ever so slightly suspended by arcane shackles of tainted gold.
The shuffle of scattered debris, accompanied by the whinge of grinding steel, the gods eyes open to a sliver. His gaze falls upon his keeper, the guise of a winged metallic angel, its iron mask dimly reflecting the illumination of the magma floes beneath their feet.
It stared at him, unchanging and emotionless, perpetuating the mechanical appearance even though beneath it's metallic skin there was the warm blood of a beast.
The god closed his eyes again, the intense heat and pungent sulfuric stench of the Earth's core sending him into a trance. As he felt the wave of nausea his mind wandered to his distant past.
The wind shook the leaves of the trees in symphonic rhythm, while the warm light of a loving Sun shone from the horizon.
In the cool breeze of a warm day, amidst golden green rolling hills. A pale blue sky with shaded clouds surrounding floating islands scattered beyond the horizon.
As we glide across these rolling hills we approach a treeline, magnificent sprawling trunks with branches like pale grey tendrils reaching for the spare sunlight. Reaching the trees a crackle fills the air, electric sparks vibrate the air with uncontainable excitement. For a passing moment, no longer than a half a blink, a dark sphere the size of a bowling ball appeared and within it the sight of an entire galaxy swirled. As quickly and abruptly as it had appeared the sphere vanished, with a warm flash of light and the sonic boom resulting from an extreme mass occupying and vacating such a condensed area over such a short time.
Though now, where this phenomena briefly graced the plane, stands what seems to be a man.
Flowing strands of hair sway long down his back, dancing with a life irreverent of the winds influence, deep brown with leafs of glinting gold. Beneath it a cloak of crude torn fabrics, dark but not quite black, tattered but whole, calmly caressing the passing breeze. This unnamed being of proud majesty, a sparkling light behind his eyes, glides along the treeline in an effortless buoyancy by the gusts of wind.
He is the painter of reality in this realm, one of the first born from the origins of time and space. Fathomed through creation and crafted in unison with his twin soul.
Eos, the whim of creation, forger of the matter within the precipice of reality. His unaged face and upon it the smile of a wild adventurer, gilded by the gold and brown locks that caress his cheeks. Eyes that pierce quarts, but maintain a warmth of wisdom and kindness rarely found in those who aren't a doting grandmother. This strange and unkempt being was responsible for these rolling hills and the motivating force that spawned life into reality. Akin to a sorcerer of limitless extent to which his reach of power embraces, with an effortless glance or brief moment of thought matter would emerge from the depths of reality to inhabit the space in which he willed.
Eos, with his grin of creation, flowed along the treeline until a clearing's cameo was entitled to recognition. Jagged crags of what seemed igneous slate aloft and bounding, arches that rise to a gate. This place of great nostalgia, in which memories of the origin take place.
Within the Context of Reality this was one of the first points of memory, the remains of a gate from which the first traversed into realms unknown. This was the place from which our subject was enticed, from his state of non-being into the now available reality.
Eos' glide slowed and he descended slowly to the warm, uneven surface of the obsidian shaded stone floor. During the descent, observations of previously revised surfaces raced through the calm lords mind, though no new realisations would entertain him.
Eos' search for the tale of origin, as previously, was to a state of avail accepted as non. The first was long gone and all trails of understanding had been severed by the energy storm that resulted from the fracturing of space and time.
For hours the wild traveller would stare at the cracks, searching for a byte, even as a whisper, and for hours his results would be futile in the face of his own determination.
