There are times in life that where you, probably just out of curious enlightenment, start to ponder whether the things you experience actually did happen. A scary mixture of that includes a pinch of existential dread, a few dallops of self-doubt and a frightening amount of detachment.
Maybe it's a sort of protection by the mind. To let it take in, conceive and rationalize what has, hasn't, could and couldn't be.
Nonetheless, everything written here is a story of my own. Experienced through a couple hundred years of wandering the lands of the world where I came to be and will inevitably return to.
What stains the annals of the pages from here-on does not primarily include stories that of my own but along those who have come to accompany me in this long voyage of mine accross eras.
An amalgam of stories from beyond the petals of a flower that bloomed atop where they now rests.
The odd stories here and there. The whispers that float beyond the Howling Chasms of the South Eastern plains to the Snowy Tundras as of the Northern archipelago.
Lastly, This book is mainly for records —entertainment might it be for some, some it might just be a words on parchment, However this book will be one of my gifts to the hopeful future.
— The Author
The Gardener, Ænectheiss of the Rites.