gaze. what is done, is done.
At the beginning of our era there were no worlds and no universes, only the
seething, raw magic of the Prim. This phosphorescent soup of creation grew
like a great, hungry, opalescent ameba. It ate the nothingness, and in the
silence it murmured and whispered.
First to erupt from the depths of the Prim was Gan, spirit of the Dark Tower.
Tall and grey-black, he pushed into the sky, the windows that spiraled round
his barrel flashing with an electric-blue light. From the center of Gans
forehead stared a great oriel wildow of twelve colors: crimson, orange,
yellow, pink, dark blue, dark green, indigo, lime, azure, violet, brown and
pearl grey. Though the window was beautiful, the circular pane at its center
glowed black as the emptiness of todash space.
Peace was boring. Men who did not savage each other were boring.
Eternity stretched before the immortal wizard, both long and wide.
Maerlyn tapped his teeth, and it was time for
more trickery.