Library of the Commonwealth

"Old was the age | when Gremel lived;
Hearts nor minds | nor souls were free;
Earth had not been | but by will of heav'n above;
Yea, save a yawning gap | and fires below.
  Then Gremel's sons | and her daughters too,
Did cast o'er Man a yoke | to till and toil
And give to them | the fruits of Our land.
Old was the age, and dark | when Gremel lived."
  The Dawn of Dawns, Book of the Vigil Triumphant
  ---   "Seven tribes did settle the promised lands, and seven cities did build, and won by blood the soil of the Pikes. On these honored lands did we then turn our eyes 'gainst each other, and put to fire and the sword many nameless thousands of our brethren; for these, our ancestors, did still hold fast to ancient tradition and fantasy, and did these things to please false gods.   Then did the Vigil, being the true inheritors of Man's bounty, and the vanquishers of the Pikes, overthrow the false priesthoods, and did reclaim the Seat of the Commonwealth from them. And all across the promised lands did this take place, and many temples were reclaimed, and the people were turned away from bondage and toward the Light of Knowledge. And the Dark Age was ended, and the Wars of Deceit were ended, and the Commonwealth was led into a Golden Age that lasts even unto this day."   History of the Commonwealth, Primary Module, Chapter I   ---   The boy's knife slips into the flesh of the onion, meeting the board beneath with a quiet thump. The juice of the root runs sticky over his fingers as he lifts the blade to cleave another slice. Its fragrance is quick to reach his nose, his eyes, and the boy begins to cry. His uncle sits on a small cushion in the center of the kitchen, leaning over a bowl of spiced tobacco and breathing deep.   "Gifts from God," the elder man says. He is gray, and still braids his beard in the manner of his father, and his father's father, as it had been done in the years before the Fall. His skin is the color of burnished bronze, deep and rich and weathered.   The boy joins his uncle on the floor, pressing his eyes into the shoulder of his tunic, certain to keep his hands away.   "These roots once grew in the Old Country. They were sweet then. Now they weep, as they wept with our ancestors when they were made to leave, as you weep now," the old man continues, pausing to breathe deeply of the curling smoke. "God put the bitterness of Man into the root, so that we might not despair in coming to these queer lands. We cry to remember. We cry in cutting what is left of our home."   The boy leans over the bowl and breathes, as his uncle does, to ease the stinging in his nostrils.   Suddenly, there is a pounding at the door, and a flashing of gilded Vigil arms.