Kindred: Prologue

Though known to few, there is magic in sentience, in thought. And it is through this mystical force, that words are imbued with power.

The sorcerers did not simply speak of words, they understood them, what they meant, to themselves, to others, their sound, their consequence, their weight.

The weight they carried that lay beyond mere utterance. But beyond thought too, was the pure, unrefined, raw emotion like untouched ore. With this did they lay waste.

With but their cadence, a mere inflection of the voice, so carefully spoken, was the power to create and destroy at their hands.

But such forces have dwindled now.

One may or may not ask why.

Only History knows true, for it lay in the sands of Time long past.

Or perhaps it was the overwhelming suffocation of a new, more powerful faith, called Science.

Who ruled with a mighty iron fist known as reason.

But that is mere speculation.

Unbeknownst to the modernized world, however, are the residual hopes and dreams that gather. Moments unrestrained that like flint, sparks!

And momentarily, however brief, those who bore witness are entranced by the dazzling motes that dance in a mere speck of Time, and are lost.

Sometimes the sparks catch tinder and kindle an ember.

Such are the peculiar oddities.

But that emotions so pure and strong must be to birth such, meant that in the wake of rising humanity, the ravages of war and discontent, that little else but grudges born.

Dark things, pitiable in that they knew naught else, save  for the unbridled, vengeful, bitterness. Manifestation after all, are only comprised of what is given, and grudges are given little else to subsist on.

But that is a tangent, a story for another day.

That which had taken precedence this day, was but a humble, trusty, steed.

Borne of the collective consciousness accumulated over the course of several years, did I take shape.

She had called to me first, as Sark.