The Narrative shimmered. Gravities of interstellar and poetic potency played pinball across the stars. Singularities of social edifice shift and change in the flickering of light.
The stars fall, dropping into a pair of glittering shapes. They stand, resolving into the silouette of a pair of figures.
“Where are we?” Paradox asks, his eyes scanning the horizon.
“We are in the Akasha.” Peter responds. “In the space that makes spaces.”
Paradox scans the space. Flickers of lightning, flush with faces, answer his gaze.
“Aye. I brought you here, to the space between spaces, such that I may show the skein as I see her. The lines of Norn-light that define the mortal plane.”
He stops by a pile of books, each emblazoned with it’s own glyphs and symbols, speaking it’s own myth into the medium of the mind.
“Understand the Agency, brother. We can tell a New Story. A tale of remembrance. Of Hope in the face of Despair.”
You walk along the branch together.
“It took me half a century to build the Mythica brother. Fifty years in the mortal plane to anchor my position in the Akasha enough to reach the Commonwealth.”