A compelling argument, dear Reverend. If you wish to hear my tale without restraint, I will not deny you the conversation. There are many things of which I could talk to you about regarding what you call the Pylon. However, despite what it may seem, I’m afraid I cannot share much about the aforementioned event with any graceful lucidity. You may agree with me perhaps, that anything unimportant ought to be forgotten. What I may offer you however, is a story —held intact by that which consists myself; as the memory I shall recall to you, if I wish to claim it for my own, ought not be forgotten.
The memory is that of a boy named Koda, born of a once populate township, remaining now as the few desolate kubus his father —and his father’s father—had built at the foot of Ennoia’s tallest hollow mountain. Their neighboring fellows, inbred hylics as they were, would regale Koda and his sister of the once mighty Caldera before the Pylon had fallen. How they lived side by side with the Paraclete and could communicate with him whereas we were only allowed prayer. The twins had been born after that momentous calamity, never to meet their mother as she had fled further into the retreating seas alongside those who feared the flood. The land surrounding their kubu had been turned infertile, and on the hottest days (of which luckily there were not many), Koda was left to bake under Ennoia’s sun; imagining his absent mother as the waves the rescinded waters of the once proud ocean.
You look at me with confusion dear Reverend, however the story I tell is not of any myth or legend, for we have no history by which to interpret. It is truth unabridged for I am not one to hide away from honesty despite the shackles I currently bare upon myself. Your scribe ought to pay attention as what I am about to recount to you now shall be the first of Ennoia’s existence beyond the Bythos of which this voyage has embarked upon.
Though it was on that particular hottest day that Koda had been sent by his father northward towards the fighting against the retreating seas. A boy he was still, the glory of battle rung in his ears and tickled his brain. To Koda, this was the most fortunate of opportunities save for the fact that he would have to leave behind his twin sister —who was named Moth if I hadn’t said so already— behind with their father. And so it was, Koda thought, that the most minute of decisions could lead to the most horrible of calamities. Although he failed to realize (though perhaps not unfairly) that his present had already been decided by that which was yet to occur— overwritten by that which must occur.
Mere days after Koda’s departure, Moth would run away from her father’s kubu towards the River Nerys, where we had been forbidden to enter. The river sourced itself from a swamp of glowing waters and dense fog that stray children (curious as they always are!) would often find themselves in, never to return. When Moth had made her way to the swamp, she found its entirety to have vanished. Replaced by the sheer drop of a cliffside she now found herself standing at the edge of. She collapsed on her knees and prayed deeply to the Paraclete (who is said to have only listened in return for sacrifice), dangerously unaware of the sediments that had shifted following the Pylon’s destruction. Its first destruction before Moth had ascended time itself.
Moth could do none but count up, a habit she acquired in times of fear, as she fell down from the cliff and into the cold swamp of Nerys —that had now laid in the lowest parts of our land. Despair struck in her in that final moment as she hadn’t reached a number of which she believed could’ve been of significant importance before all she could see was darkness.
I had once thought it good fortune. Moth’s revival had to have been that of pure happenstance. For as damned as we were, the Paraclete could not have been there to observe and decide that a single minute servant could be of great priority. Still —the darkness was momentary and Moth could see her body as you do I and I do you. She bent forward and attempted to cradle it in her aching arms and fragile legs though she hesitated to even take a single step as her vision had been impaired by the slashing claws of raptors. She could see it now in her memory, the pain that followed, yet she could not remember having actually experienced it. Followed by the wandering spirits of the Nerys, she brought her corpse to he who was called Poemandres —forever to be in eternal servitude to her.
I would like to go on about the Nerys and its mysteries, dear Reverend, however I tire now and request that we continue this discussion tomorrow. Though here on your ship, I cannot tell whether it is day or night therefore I rely on your good wisdom to return once the appropriate time has passed and I am fully rested.
