(Vertebrae Ridge: as spoken by Xolotl, Alpha Byron and The Maker)

Windmills will go ‘round.

On this, the night that we stand on the planet’s spine, time will be opened as the planet and suns become aligned. Written in rhyme, time opens up like a paragraph. Accept that words have no true order, though without structure it would collapse. We need a guide. Some protomartyr to see us through the final transition: invoke a wormhole to salvation. Darkened in this eclipse is a portal.

Since time’s inception the Linga Sharira have guided the flow of the force. Flying with feathers forged of the fabric; omnipotent shepherds to all the transcendent.

Meditate on this: in eight minutes the second sun of this solar plane supernovas, sending the concentric circles of annihilation! And on this night our fate will be decided. If you don’t kill The Maker you can’t keep on living, ‘cause if he keeps on living then you will die with the rest of us.

And for those meant to grow, we’ve sown the seeds they needed. And for those to be silenced, our voices: the guide to the quiet of the earth. And so it has been, and so it is, and so it will always be.

All chaos and confusion culminate to this pointed derivative, meant as a way for us to live in peace and harmony. The irony of it all is the fall of the man who designed you. His death will bind you to your destiny. His death will bring darkness to all that was light and the Byron’s thirst will be satiated.

[“Here we are father, just as requested. Could it be that tonight we will be free from this twisted sea of souls? Guiding planets through wormholes seems and arduous task. Such a shame that our freedom is born from your termination.”]

At the tail of his terminal breath, the breadth of the sky crawls with the key to your deliverance.

[“Liberty from this body and the throes of thraldom it instilled on us. This burden was an odious weight for our time to die.”]

Your sentence served. Now your passage into Iman Ta rests with The Maker’s ka.
{“A destiny, sketched instead of set. Malleable fate left an escape route: my demise”} Ka!{“My double after death: take this blade, pierce my chest, twist and bleed this body dry”}

All chaos and confusion culminate to this pointed conclusion. Smithed of your soul, this sword was forged to entwine synchronous minds in symbiotic bliss. You must accept your role as the cardinal component of the infinite machine. You’re the scion of the shepherds of time. Now! You are as Atlas; the onus defined. Shoulder the world and leave ruin behind!