It was a chill morning in Mayan, four hundred and sixty-nine years after
the fall of the Seleucarian Empire, when the fabric of the Prime
Material Plane shivered again beneath the foot of its undying Creator.
The ineffable essence of Sarapis, the Logos, whose will began the
worlds, moved across the lands, and all existence thrilled at His
presence. The mountains groaned and strained toward Him, like flowers
following the movements of the sun, and the swiftly roaring winds
crashed into a sudden awesome stillness, reverent before the eldest of
the Elder Gods.

Prophets and shamans muttered uneasily, and scholars everywhere rushed
to consult charts of omens, noting the positions of the celestial
bodies. An egghunt was immediately declared in honour of the occasion,
while the city channels hummed with speculation and conversation.
Mhaldor emerged triumphant from the contest, hopeful that their victory
on such a propitious date would denote future conquests, and the beaten
citizens of Eleusis strove to dismiss their paltry score of three points
as meaningless in the greater schemes of destiny.

A large group assembled in Ashtan, compelled by an ancient, primal
recognition of the first being. Addressing the heavens with one fervent
voice, they pleaded to be slain for the glory of the Creator. High
above, the obliging Weaver heard their cries, and rained unquenchable
fire down into their midst. Blujixapug, Jaizsur, Spudd, Lavantis,
Leitia, Jillianna, Taaveti, Taraza, Lerik, Venkia, Renee, Tholph, Kiba,
Tearaelian, Malculus, River, Deslo, Majin, Arlais, and Lilin were all
consumed by the raging azure inferno of divine power.

A minister of Shallam, not to be outdone, rushed to the city ramparts to
confront the Corporal charged with oversight of the catapults. Within a
moment, huge flares of brilliant colour were erupting over the city's
glittering architecture in the jewel's genuflection to the father of the
Gods. Fireworks shattered the night sky in blossoming bursts of
multihued grandeur, and the echoing thunder of their blasts rippled
across the wide plains of the Pash Valley.

The precise portent of the Logos's brief appearance remains a mystery,
though undoubtedly one of immense significance. It has been a day whose
memory will endure for generations, if not until the end of time.

Penned by My hand on the 24th of Mayan, in the year 469 AF.