The Canto of the Ages
The chronological scaffold of recorded history. Written by the Architect at the end of time to serve as the structural key for the reconstruction of memory. It defines the dominant tension and metaphysical laws of each Epoch.
Attributes
Form
canto
Abstract
The Chronological Scaffold; a poetic history defining the dominant tension and metaphysical laws of each Epoch.
Text
I. THE PRIMAL AGE (The Epoch of Separation)
The Arbor was the spine of the dark.
Roots drank the deep Orkrin. Crown drank the high Seidra.
We were Architects of the Morning, building without tools,
Speaking to render stone as clay.
But the Starbreaker coveted the light he could not hold.
He spoke the Name of the Daughter, and she shattered.
The Golden Age collapsed.
And the Mist fell upon the brow of the world.
II. THE ELEMENTAL AGE (The Epoch of Pressure)
To heal the wound, we forged the Deeps.
But we could not abide the stillness of the stone.
And so we sought to quicken the pulse of the world.
Five chisels struck the roots as one—a Rite of Opening.
We sought a pulse, but struck arterial tide.
The Arbor did not sing; it screamed.
Argent flowed. Gules boiled. Sable drowned.
From the clot and the gore rose the Fimroth, Beasts of the Blood.
We bound them in chains of our own making,
Learning that power is no gift, but hydraulic force.
We became Wardens of the leak we had sprung.
III. THE ARCANE AGE (The Epoch of Geometry)
Tired by seeping chaos, we sought to freeze the flow into form.
We ignited the Fonts and spun dust into Spheres.
We built Verdant Boughs, worlds of rock and law.
We codified Disciplines.
We said, "Let there be Order," and we became Tyrants of the Structure.
The Gladewardens fused with their thrones, drunk on alignment.
But the masonry was brittle. When the Arbiters pulled the thread,
The Nimirroth rose from the cracks in our logic.
IV. THE SPECTRAL AGE (The Epoch of the Prism)
The great powers were spent. The giants were weary.
So we turned the Engine of Souls, the Veilbound Cycle.
We poured the Nascents onto the husk.
They lived short, frictional lives, ignorant of the Arbor.
They were fuel. They were heat.
But the heat sparked a fire we did not predict.
The Rift tore open the mind of the cosmos.
The Phasgoth poured out—Fear, Despair, Pride—monsters of belief.
We shattered the beam into seventy-two colors to survive.
V. THE AGE OF ECHOES (The Epoch of Fading)
Now the fire cools. The Transmutation is done.
Magic settles into the bedrock, sleeping as Physics.
The Gods retreat to the text. The Heroes to the grave.
We are the Echoes of a shout that happened long ago.
We write the histories because we can no longer live them.
The Haze thickens. The noise amplifies.
We wait for the Unweaving.
For the Architect to remember the Pattern of the Seed.