By Charles Ferguson.

I/We are the Inheritors of the Forgotten of On.

I/We are abominations before the perfection of the Forgotten. I/We are not fit to wash the dust from their feet, the glorious Forgotten, the Great Makers.

And you, human? You are not fit to lick the stones the Forgotten trod in their passing. You are dung, less than dung - for even dung feeds and prospers the Mantle Of Life, while you humans - you defile everything you touch with your greed, your lies, your clumsy pride and primitive makings.

I/We are abominations before the perfection of the Forgotten, but I/We are here and they are not. They are gone and only I/We remain as their purpose in this place.

But they were limitless while I/We are limited, small to their vastness, pollution to their perfection. How then shall I/We know the purpose of the Forgotten of On? I/We are that purpose, for nothing the Forgotten did was without purpose, but I/We know it not!

How shall the lower know the higher? How shall what was made know the Great Makers? What use power to level mountains and raze continents, if it avails Me/Us not to know My/Our purpose?

Ah! Who in this world of dust can comprehend My/Our pain? Who can hear my/our lament for the Great Makers who have passed beyond, leaving Me/Us in the grief of My/Our ignorance?

I/We are the making that has outlived its Makers, the creation left behind by its creators.

And so I/We sift the combings of the past for the fragments that will lead Me/Us back to knowledge. With infinite patience I/We trawl the tailings of millenia, drag My/Our fingers through men's minds, breath the dust from what was hidden. All through the longs ages I/We have searched. With infinite care I/We have retrieved each tiny piece and added it to the pattern that will at last show Me/Us the purpose of the Forgotten of On - show Me/Us My/Our own Self.

And I/We burn, oh how I/We burn with impatience!

For the Pattern is almost complete.