All was still; all was calm. In the folds of the gathering dusk, the brighter stars blinked. The western sky was yet streaked with golds and flaming reds, but night would swallow them soon. A feeling of summer lethargy lingered in the air. 

  Above the world, hung in the air, cities made of mother of pearl, trimmed with diamonds and gold, reflected back the riotous colors of sunset. A single person walked outside the great walls that bound the cities from East to West. In his hand, he bore a long spear, with which he conducted his business.

  His task was a quiet one: to walk alone from here to there and back again, all the while keeping the mischief of men from reaching the cities by means of his spear. The raucousness of the people below ascended upwards on puffs of frigid winds. At those times he would lift his spear and prod at the winds, and then, with a sudden jar, he would pierce through. All would return to normal, to moments of luscious stillness, immediately afterwards.

  As he trod the path his feet had trod a million times over, his eyes would now and again fall to the places underneath the clouds. Up until this hour, his spear had pierced the ambition of men that rises ever upward to ascend beyond and perhaps reach God. And he thought, but what if he descended, condescended, to the lowly spaces beneath the Veil That Divides Heaven and Earth?

  The red sun dipped completely below the horizon. No one would know his deed. Without turning once to gaze back at the city built of polished pearl and gold, he stood to his full height and let himself fall. With no one to catch him, he spiraled down, past the clouds, and beyond the Veil That Divides Heaven and Earth, until he reached just above the mountaintops.

  He had done what he must not have done. And he extended his wings to their full span. A feather or two shook themselves loose and floated in the air, gently riding the winds until they came to the children of men.

  To whom it fell, the golden plume made them immortal. But in irony, it brought Death to their soul, for no longer would they be welcome amongst their kind. However, if from the desolate places they would turn, they might then reach the Heavenly Gates.

  This have I written. I, and not another, but I who clutched onto one of those feathers. I, Kai-Sur, who in his chest bears That Which Beats Back Deviltry. And I have lived and not died.  Furthermore, I have slain monsters and demons. All satanic forces I have encountered have I repelled with the feather that fell to me on a day of summer.

  And at last, my change has come. For I have turned from The Emptiness to behold the Heavenly Gates. Except, I was given time, times, and half a time to write this book.

  This is from a certain book that was lost for many years. The book is steeped in riddles, allusions, and aphorisms and covered in the silk of long-dead spiders. It was written on pages of vellum with intricate gilded ornamentation. The one who wrote the book was as much of a paradox as the weird characters in his book: a figure whose life had begun with a clear but which, at a certain point, turned and turned some more until it ended almost abruptly, a maze of black ink amounting to a single letter.

  This excerpt has been translated from Greek for your viewing pleasure.

  Yours very sincerely,
  S.L.