The following is a translation of passages from the Mysterium Eschatonica, provided to us by the Pious Ward in the Free City of Delve:

"His omnipotent hold extended to the north,
and with one hand did He anchor air to our world.
The Eschaton turned the land's first breath upon us,
and through His gift did we know motion."

In the beginning of the Eschaton's beauteous realm, He conscripted the air itself to serve in His masterwork. Anchored to the world by the will of His Helm, the land drew deeply of this breath He bestowed upon its lungs. Upon the wind did He scatter the seeds of nature and to the wind did He bequeath the destructive power to shape stone, heave oceans, and coerce or cull fire.

The Eschaton looked upon His Creation and knew the air to be an empty, lonely place. He filled it with clouds to carry the rain and birds to share the gift of music. Knowing it to be the most fleeting of elements, He joined it with day and night so that they might keep an eye upon it - and in so doing, the three of them came to know the joy of unified purpose within the sky.

"Bound to the north by worldforged chains,
the Eschaton unleashed air into His Creation's veins.
Racing along each link were words untold,
gifting mortals language and culture to uphold."

We give thanks to the Eschaton for the air that fills our lungs, for without it we could not give thanks for all other boons provided by Him. Upon the air does all sound traverse, be it music, mourning, the soughing of the trees, arguments betwixt mortalfolk, or any other matter of mundanity - all are within its domain and all are a blessing of the generous Creator.

Give praise to Him beneath the new and full moon both, for it is wind that reveals and conceals alike to the moon at its darkest and brightest. Bless Him with song and beauteous chants that express gratitude for His Creation and the gifts He saw fit to give unto mortalkind. Give unto Him your fervent song and pious prayer, conveyed upon the breeze of blessed night.

Purify your temples with the smoke of enlightening herb during ceremony held at these times, for these fumes travel alike to anything else upon the invisible path that is the Eschaton's windswept providence.

"Our tongues were as ash before Him,
our words robbed from us by auspice grim.
Air quivered before the quarrel of Day and Night,
and its sundered halves took immediate flight."

Beware the risk of sacrilege; use not the Eschaton's sacred name, for to do so is to cast disrespect upon His gift of wind and language. Remember ever and always that our collective understanding is gift from Him, for without language we could not express the other boons that constitute His providence. Recall the dark times of uttermost silence, when mortalkind quivered beneath the burden of wordless existence, and weep for the passage of such a terrible age. Pray to Him that we remain worthy, so that He never sees us returned to such squalor once more.


Penned by my hand on Quensday, the 6th of Chakros, in the year 511 MA.