When the Great Void gasped and the first thought bloomed, the Nine sat within the Outer Spire to draw the lattice upon the nothingness. They spoke the Necessary Path into the marrow of the unformed and the chaos of possibility was chained. The Creetees Council gathers where time is but a sketch on vellum, a blueprint to be edited by the silent hand. Chronos-Ex marks the ticking of a heart not yet born while Kairon weighs the gold of a thousand kings against a single grain of dust. Vexis stirs the cauldron of conflict to see if the manifest reality holds its shape. You who walk the Prime Material are but ink upon the scroll, your breath a mere data point in a cosmic ledger. Your blood acts as the agent of execution, fulfilling a vote cast before the stars were lit. Do not cry out to the sky for mercy or for love, for the sky is a wall of polished glass and the Arbiters are busy with the update. Orizon maps the horizon of your ending while Mura writes the script of your desire. The deadlock of the celestial bureaucracy shall only break when a mortal solution is found in the dirt. Then comes the silence of the Recycling Grave. Ix-Uul waits with the silver needle to strip the name from the ghost and the memory from the soul. The experience is cataloged, the data is refined, and the essence is dissolved into the raw soup of the next cycle. The Nine shall vote again, the Finite Fold shall buckle, and the Necessary Path will be redrawn in the color of your ending. · Medium · Medium