It was in the darkness of the new moon that we had found the darkness within ourselves. The shadows were shut in for a time to be let loose on better more acceptable days. But was there ever a day in which our breath could be held comfortably between exhaustion and relief? For this was the way of our days in the times of disenchantment.

Every moment was on the brink, and we teetered on the edge looking back into the night, hoping beyond hope that a path will be shown to us amidst the chasm or our own design. We waited with our backs turned to our oblivion, steadily sliding into the unknown with fear in our hearts. We simply did not know what would become of us if we were to accept the inevitable fall, and so we designed contraption after contraption, powered by the ever deepening darkness of our own discontents, using the depths of the abyss to form the constructs by which we could preserve our arrogance of knowing; and with it came the haughty disposition of justifying our disdain for collective responsibility.

When all was said and done, our greatest curse was our inability to accept the meaning of “not knowing”. We were victims of dread, and in our dread we sought comfort in the fantasies that no meaning was to be had from our existence. We fantasized about our arrogant institution’s abilities to resolve the onslaught of our anxieties. But they never did. As time went on and we were swamped in the muck of our own anxiety, we started grabbing on to anything and anyone that proposed a solution. We danced around our problems like drunken sailors inside the eye of a hurricane. The calm calamity caressing the beautiful illusions of safe passage, drunk with the giddy delight of “a little more time”.

But we were wrong. We were blind. As the time ran out and our poisons went dry, it was in our chaotic scrambling and mournful wails that we had given birth to monsters that ate our children’s futures. We elected the specters of evil in the lament of putting off the greater evils for a short while. But our willful ignorance caught up to us, it eclipsed us, and in the face of truth we cowered.

In the most uncertain of times however, there were a few people not drunk off the arrogance of control and superiority. A few who peered into the abyss and stepped after it. A few who greeted the end not in happiness or anxiety, but with a grim determination that the unknown must hold the key to their salvation. And so they leaped into the depths, seen by the dying as mad men, but they alone knew that sanity was no longer a means to knowledge. To achieve a knowledge they had yet possessed, they intuited that they must go by ways they have yet to know, and so the death of the old story was all that was left to them.

These people were the initiates into a greater Will that sought to revive magic as the entanglement of meaning and matter. They were given gifts to shine lights upon dark paths. They were the Shamans, Magicians, Psychopomps and Bards of a new world. And they were tasked with weaving spells into the world by which the death of the old stories would become a crucible for the new stories of enchantment.