Operation: “Swashbuckler’s Goatee”
“The lips of wisdom are closed, except to the ears of undertanding”
~ The Kybalion
For time immemorial, the mystical and natural laws, planar geography, and political economy of the wider multiverse have been hidden from the general population of the world widely known as Sanctuary (Earth to its native inhabitants) in accordance with the Eden Edict of the Binary Proclamation.
Swashbuckler’s Goatee is the codename for a covert undertaking by a faction of the Quantum Chroniclers of Farlore to share with the residents of Earth the truth of the reality that exists beyond Sanctuary Rim.
My name is Nif Lorcan Hawkmoor. I am a Chronicler of Farlore, a Steward of the Promethean Gnoitalmanac of the Olympian Imperium, and I am one of the renegade few who deem it essential that the isolation and exploitation of Sanctuary and its inhabitants must, at long last, come to an end.
So then — with high confidence that when the time comes, and our motivations are weighed against the need for this desperate act, the wisdom and mercy of the Pentarchy will beget leniency for what we have done, — we share herein, the history of reality so long withheld from the sheltered and shackled minds of humanity.
Though we hold no delusions that this account of events will be believed by most, we see this effort as a beginning. It is our hope that by way of ascertaining this account of the saga of Earth’s greatest son, even those few inclined to believe may spur the evolution of humankind toward its fullest mystic potential. For just as Andy Crowley, Sole Sorcerer of Sanctuary, came to be the greatest threat reality has ever known, so to may his kin become reality’s greatest hope.
Of the ascent of the Abraxas, in whose godhood the forces of good and evil would be reconciled and free will ended, there is no written record or material reckoning of any kind.
Of the War of All Gods, in which the Abraxas fell, also, there is no permanent account of a sort typically decipherable by Earther historians within the boundary of Sanctuary Rim.
What you are reading here – these insubstantial and archaic runes – though they connect one’s mind through spacetime and across the planes to the details of this darkest of events – is not real. At least not real in the way most beings understand things to be real.
This account – the words on these pages – though in this moment seemingly tangible and meaningful to us, is by no means, either sorcerous or scientific, indistinguishable from a dream or a fleeting notion in the mind.
And though it may inform us, the true nature of this device is incomprehensible to most. For it is, in truth, naught but a phantom in the thoughts between our thoughts – where our dreams and greater journeys are realized. By all measures, this apparitional reckoning, conceived by the most potent of magics, exists beyond that thin fringe of matter and conscious awareness that comprises the material realm of most people’s everyday waking lives.
Suffice it to say that, by the subterfuge, courage and powerful sub-quantum scribecraft of a renegade faction of the Chroniclers of Farlore, we fortunate few are privy to this arcane knowledge of perhaps the most significant event in the history of the cosmos – though it should be known that for many reading this (particularly those who still reckon in sidereal time and are limited to unilateral perception in four-dimensional spacetime), the most tragic of the events detailed herein have not yet occurred.
At the centre of this history then is Sanctuary. A spherical speck of existence containing four planets rimmed by a belt of asteroids around a middling yellow star. Altogether unspectacular at a passing glance, Sanctuary, unbeknownst to its native inhabitants, was esteemed as the sacred jewel of the multiverse, for it was the one place in all existence where consciousness could not penetrate inward across the moebius bridge into the probability fields of the quantum vortices.
Few, if any, of the wisest sages in all reality suspected that the being who would become the Abraxas would be born on Sanctuary: the one place where magic did not work.
And so, on that warm day in June, when Ancaster (Andy) Crowley waded into the river behind his home to cast his first spell, a chill shuddered through the cosmos. And across a distance unfathomable, through the purple mist of the realm between realms, into the ear of one of only a few beings inclined to listen for it, the winds of Limbo whispered the name it was Andy’s destiny to bear…
And so to you now, by way of the Glass Grimoire, excerpted from The High Chronicle of Farlore, in-turn informed by the Promethean Gnoitalmanac, I present — rendered for conspicuous proliferation in the manner of pulp serial fiction —