‘The Kingswell Chronicle’

Sans imaginations and their tendrils of thought, the annals of history’s history now bewilders us with darkness foretold.

Long shall nightmares visit upon us tales beyond that pretended in our most ghoulish visions.  Sup at the board of cataclysm, we will, for universes unfold in mayhem and yearning, in order and disgust.

Speak of yarns unfathomable and weep for the untold truth, for nary a shadow compares with such lightlessness.

Even now The Kingswell Chronicle begins with but a touch of Dreamdarkers, the reviled shedding of many a hope left to wilt in minds too weak to comprehend what pain they fashion.  Would that we could understand truly that which we create by mere thought… that we could appreciate what hallowed hell we visit upon those from whom we take so much yet know so little.

Then comes End of the Warm Season.  Beguiled of gods and monsters, before us rests the cosmos seen through eyes both ancient and new.  Ponder the wisdom brushed against our cheeks when we hold in stillness to consume with eyes the very marvels spread before us.  Stars become mysteries written by hands older than time itself, yet the beast of foreign name dwells within twilight so that he might consume the life of the very gods we worship.  And in Armageddon’s battle shall the monster face the god from whom he wants so much for so high a price.

But Kingswell offers us too much to be told in so quick a manner.  Even with Dreamdarkers coming before the Still Watchers, life tarries not with tomorrow except that it might bring forth another perdition from whose abyss we can gleam one more clue as to the destiny of all life.

The inferno of Centralia proffers a foothold upon which we might stand only to warm our feet against the light of damnation.  To know the devil of our own making is to finally know our own doom, and to rest on weary legs atop the hope of Hades is to wither before the whole chronicle that waits to be told.

What account lies in wait beyond has only fate’s longing to tell.  Whether it be the first chapter of The Breaking of Worlds or some other saga, only time can say.

But hear this meek beginning with souls alight and ears afire:
“We are temptation’s hatred and pain’s desire. . .
We are pleasure’s anguish and forever’s death…”
What truth you riddle from this I dare not guess.
Render it a clue unto your comprehension of what is to come,
for The Kingswell Chronicle has just begun. . .

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