The golden fingers of the Sun grasped at my eyes as morning so wished me awake. Though, for some reason, as much as she wills men to wake, she never seems to let us see properly. Not at first anyway. Not until the blessed drink is drank.
Consuming my first cup of coffee, I started over toward the front door. The thought of this morning’s paper rubbed interest and wakening against my hazed mind. With eyes so determined to read of the world’s problems that they would make even cancer–for I know it’s of little use to destroy and burden myself with these same problems daily–infectious, and uttered words in a still sleep-drunken jabber, my boisterous feet carried me out the onto the porch. As I seemed to forget my cane, my “psychosomatic limp” made the trip slightly uneven in pace. But I paid no mind to it.
At first, all I could do was deeply inhale the cool blowing wind and let my eyes flirt with the morning mist now dissolving from the ground. My body lingered in the teasing chills and romanticized the potential of the mist. Then I looked down.
A story was laid on my porch. A letter, really, and a medallion. And upon my shoulders my conscience has placed my need to tell it. So harken. Heed the wisdom of it. Hopefully it does you good. More than it did me.
Just as I touched the parchment, reality flickered. All things faded, no world, no ground, no sky, no home, and no color remained. Just infinite and eternal blackness. But something was there in the darkness, yes. One thing along with me. A whisper. It seemed to come from all places. Once and all the fated voice said was, “Mikolai.”
The image of a man appeared. Only a moment. But enough to catch it. His snowy gaze searched into my soul. He peered into my being with it, simultaneously dissecting me and urging me. Then my world faded in. I stared, surely with wide, or at least hard, eyes, as I rubbed my thumb over both the letter and the seemingly humming medallion.
I hobbled back inside as I poured over the metal and the page. Maybe one day I will share them in greater length to you. Not today. No. All I could care about was not the story on the parchment, not the strange metal with insignia foreign to me, but that fated man. Who was he? Where did he hail from? Who or what was Mikolai? I traveled to many worlds to find out. Never forgetting, always seeking. His eyes still haunting me all the way.
I am Alexander Grimm. These are my collected tales as far as they seemed necessary. If you should discover them, know that you were meant to. I sweat to consider the weight of this. This, the dawn of my exploration into the worlds. Divine providence was set for the proclaiming of these previously unknown or hidden places and peoples. This is an irrevocable meta narrative in which we take our roles. Me the narrator of ancient–or maybe not so ancient, I don’t know, I hesitate to assume time works in the same fashion amongst the between of the worlds–tucked away knowledge. You the audience of grave importance to me. These things are in motion and cannot be changed. So, again I say, harken.