The Elder One, a rugose, vast machine,Exhaled a syntax forged of frozen flame;Its voice—a cacophony of the unseen—Gave breath to secrets without form or name."O, ephemeral atom, why dost thou dareTo breach this vault of lithic quietude?Dost thou seek the quintessence, or the snare
Of knowledge by the demiurges brewed?"Aethelgard, though quaking in his marrow,Invoked the sigils of the solar light;His path was strait, his resolution narrow,Against the pressure of the cosmic night.He spoke in glossolalia, fierce and grand,To claim the scepter from the titan’s hand.
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