As it transpires, July 1 marked the first-year anniversary of my undeath. I haven't enough live brain cells to process all of these new features (or to overcome my chronic diffidence). Fortunately, I was able to complete the following on the second floor of my stronghold as the undead dire-sirens breached the front gate.

In the beginning, there were four races: the --, the --, the --, and the --. They found each other as peaceably as one could hope for, and things have remained so since. Granted, the present denotes aged puzzles untwining—olden enigmas ripened for the new age. The circumstance that held sway over the congregation of these peoples could only remain so temporal for so long. Things never before thought possible are now driving persons of all kinds down paths of all orders of length and contortions. Loke’s path has spiraled down a vortex of difficult decisions and regrettable actions, and the downdraft doesn’t seem to come to an end. -- certainly doesn’t mark an end for this descent; it marks the beginning of the hunt—the forage for his head. Loke has wronged many people, and they deserve retribution. Perhaps he can someday compensate for the disappointment.