Part of the prologue of a book in conception

There were places upon this realm that were untouched by time, where memories and prophecy became indistinguishable and mingled like the fine threads of a rich tapestry. Only when those threads were woven into a fabric and lost their identity was the picture they were destined to make evident. In one such place was a lake whose other side was lost to the horizon, and over its waters that were the shade of a stormy twilight sky, was a fog that never dissipated. Upon the shores of this lake was a small dilapidated house, its wood rotting. In this small house were impossibly long corridors and palatial rooms, buried in layers of dust accumulated for each age the house stood defying time.

Through the silence that hung thick upon this house the patter of tiny feet could be heard. The sounds came from a roomy hallway that had an uncountable number of large mirrors on either side, held in frames that were suspended by stands of pure gold. Inscribed upon the frames and stands were a script that could not be recognized by mortals, and though covered by dust, the inscriptions shone through with a dull, bluish light. The maker of this sound was dressed in dusty, torn clothes that were once the finest that could be found, raiment of royalty. The little girl was smeared in dirt. Her face held a serene expression as she held her tattered doll close, her unkempt golden hair flying as she danced with her eyes closed, to a beat only she could hear.

The rhythm to which she danced came from a place that was far from the dusty corridors, the house it was in, and the lake whose shore it was on. It came from the hooves of a magnificent stallion, a remnant of a feral age untainted by the efforts of man to tame the powers of the world he lived in. His muscles rippled underneath his fine coat that was the color of a shadow upon the snow, and to look into his eyes was to know a small part of the True darkness of the First night. He cast no shadow, and left no mark as he ran, but he was more a part of this land than any imprint could ever be. His velvet mane flowed as he stamped the ground, and the music of Kraedon was composed.

The song of Kraedon was born when the land was, each life upon it became a note, lending to a magnificent masterpiece that its composers did not hear, but lived. So the music played, and would play. On that day, however when the day was dead but the night was not yet born, the music stopped. For a moment, all of Kraedon stood still. The eyes of the horse rolled as it skidded to a halt for the first time in its long life. And far away, in the dusty house, the girl stopped to dance, her doll slipping away from loose fingers. Her large eyes filled with dread, joy and sorrow, and with a tiny gasp, she fell to the floor.

In that stillness, rose the wails of eight newborns.