B.T.V. -- Session 01 Interlude: Hiatus in One's Mind

One is Selidor . . . 


Alone within one’s honor and understanding. How we live, how we react, what we pursue, our joy and our disappointment, that is our life, being human, and our death. For even immortals can die.

Selidor had assembled the particulars in his mind. He stood within a Law form, but it was of his perception. While Vaxus had drawn him there, it was his own practice of Hakka Neka Mancy, he loathed the word art as it implied an influence of wild unrestrained experiment, which had delivered him to this extant construction of Law.

The Ziggurat. Harsag Zalazalag. The Peak which Emits the Brilliance, as spoken in ancient Sumerian.

Law stabile, immobile in fundament.

Chaos fluid, intrusion in fundament.

Law did not emerge from Chaos, but Chaos from Law, a fact he had learned only recently. But critical in the understanding of existence. As he had traveled, he had witnessed the Ziggurat, and cracks within. Fractures he thought. And yet they could not be. The nature of Law would not allow it. It would be impossible but for the ending of all things. What then could it mean? His father had hinted at it, revealed in his way the truth between Law and Chaos. Akkadia and Anachaos. Sacred and Profane. Two functioning, interacting counter opposites acting in unison.

And One was by my birth providential evidence of this Truth. As One was given to Law and Chaos, Vaxus was given to Light and Darkness. But that digression was to be digested at a later opportunity. For now there is only the path, . . . ever the path.

Ana Harrani Sa Alaktasa La Tarat. The Road Whose Course Does Not Turn Back At Me.

Shadow was as he understood it, the inbetween. As the Colors of the Third Realm rise, Shadow excels within them, betwixt and between. And that too was important as existence now as determined by the Dragons of Time and Shadow was Axildusk, the Mainstay World of Shadow. The setting of one’s pursuits.

The experience of travel though the Ziggurat Form must thus be understood in the parameters set by all these articles of reality’s constitution. It was how the Pattern performed and its counter the Logrus. How the Hall of Mirrors existed and interacted by guidance of Fate’s Devoted Practitioner the Runestaff.

The seeming chaos and cruel diaspora of the incomprehensible, was at base a wonderment of orderly working. One simply had to view it from a height great enough to perceive its astonishing perfection.

Sada Emedu. To Reach the Mountain.

But now he must come down from it.




To begin, One must cure Oneself. Cure in the method of fashioning one template of self into another through practiced endeavour as the leatherworker cures leather.

This occurrence is over a period that is unrecorded. For time as can be measured currently is only in stages of accomplishment. And so, at some stage the result is revealed.




It is as if one was viewing oneself without skin or cover; the blood and sinew and bone open to plain view.

Now to path, to Road. Oh Hakka Nekka Mancy, Oh Ziggurate Form,

Peta Babkama Luruba Anaku! Open the Gate for Me So That I Can Enter here!

One sees and takes to the Ziggurat’s steps. Up, up and up, and also down and across. The journey is of the small to attain the large. The between and then in-between to achieve the without. One finds the breach as Vaxus made. One walks the method of Gerard’s decant. One understands the coming was as a Hellride. One’s leaving must be as the ancient travel through shadow, parallel or alternate, blended, stepped, staged. And all in the Form of the Ziggurat.

One sees it, the solid rectangular stepped tower. And within and upon it, One views the fractures, splits, cracks which One now realizes are not, but are the beginnings of the chaos sea. From Law emerges Chaos. Solid to liquid. From the Ziggurat comes the Amorphic sea.

He takes to it, steps whose pores weep flows that can be traversed.

The words of his father echo then in his mind . . . You are the ship. I am your anchor. You are the ship. I am the chart. You are the ship. I am the wave. Think on me.

Father!!!

The red lines so vivid so virulent turn blue. And One slowly remembers. Drifting as if upon raft, mist and dampness upon the face. Blue with golden locks, and a countenance that leaves One breathless . . .

Selidor opened his eyes. A wet cloth was being applied to his cheeks and brow. He leaned upward and forward, kissing Lyra with what small strength he had. Then he closed his eyes, collapsing back into slumber, this time with spirit anchored firmly back into place and the peace of renewal and restoration etched well upon his face.

Transcribed by A.Fraser