I have been a Watchman with the Interspatial Border Enforcement for 12 decades now. This task is ever shifting with new technologies, but the most valuable tool possessed to me is the sight to detect the difference between an innocent void of light and an engaged mass of darkness. My people, the Filettoti, are gifted the blood of the Fae, the Magus, and the human. With only few kin and kith to perch here, ever have we served the light.
My time is monopolized by the faceless side of the moon, which begets an entrance to an extensive concealed city purposed with powering the Multiverse for this solar system. There stands a summit on the moon called the Spectral Posit, the only location in the solar system to which one can ubiquitously stand in observation of every parallel at once.
It is here that my watch is kept, but it is not travelers that I seek, but the ominous Lufte. The Lufte that sifts through the sparse particles of light as it coagulates as a dense mass of living darkness. It appears as a purposefully accelerated cloud, a black impenetrable apparition that weaves its way in and out of every parallel.
It breathes the exhaust of wicked deeds’ residuals. The lost ear aching for potency is bent to it, as Lufte whispers in alarming and urgent voices. The evil is opaque in eyes extricated from illumination. The untoward souls instantly gratify themselves by connecting with this interdimensional leviathan that swims readily through the betwixt of nightmares to the matter of day, scarring every road that a glad heart might travel, until no roads are left that do not lead to Lufte’s door.
I carry the Watchmen’s Light that fends the beast, yet to another score of vile clarions, he comes. He heralds the call as he unsheathes each blade of his black mouth. So has he grown, for there are not enough Watchmen any longer to disrupt his momentum.
Yet, I declare it is not inevitable that he swallows the world, but what must advance in crucial response is the vigorous stand against such a loathsome pitch. He will come and go until he ruins you all a thousand times, so sit not and wait for his doom. Let folks pocketed with the treasures of valor and generosity of spirit bear the high temple’s torches against the madness that gorges on the orgasmic and venomous fumes of division.
Let not the wheel revolve in too many degrees in complacency, as horror spins a clever new yarn to blanket the world. Venge not your neighbor, nor your sisters, nor brothers, and listen not to the forked tongues that spur the ever-corrosive divide that paralyzes critical camaraderie.
Rise, and shine your torches, until every word spoken in every language rings across the ether that virtue and love remain unbreakable come what may, that darkness has no place in our lands, in our time, in our Universe, and live in the promise of a better world that stirs in the ancient collective with reverence to the phenomenon of unified fortitude.
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