Serpentine eyes gazed upon the stars. He lay in the grasses gazing into that deep abyss. The cosmic play of dark and light laid before him, the great dark veil studded with diamond specks. The realm of those great ones who move beyond the reasoning of mere flesh and blood. How many worlds are we on? Or is this the only one that the father has graced with his children.

Scales rustle as he changes position, following the sway of the tall grasses, whos outlines barely break that yawning sea. 

They say it is the serpent that holds the secret, the divine responsibility and burden of cosmic knowledge. Swing and sway, the sea of blades, back and fourth they dance as cobra undulating to the unheard song of the wind, and singing back in their secretive hisses. How small and how large, even the father is dwarfed by even greater and older entities who swim in the great black as surely as an anaconda parting the flows of a river. 

The father graced him, even in so little a share of his blood, a slight drop of that high knowledge being all this mortal coil could hold. As the primitives huddle to the arcane fire so too does the philosopher seek the illumination higher understanding may bring. Those blinded of dulled by their inability to understand hate a fear the light, seeing what they cannot grasp as a great evil.

I loath them. For the great ones are never evil, merely beyond that which we may understand.

But I, I have a link. A thread tied to a titan, a finger in the vast sea. So the father came to me and flooded my mind with that soundless music. So I struggle to unravel the words of the unspoken, the great secrets casually tossed aside by that grand and great snake.

I am bound to him, though he cares not for me. May I glean even a scale from him in his vastness, so that I may shield the very world with the slightest vestige of the knowledge he holds. As I think this, my hand subconsciously strokes the spine of the dark book. A gift from Yig, so that I may write slivers of his great song. So that his secrets may be recorded, so that I too may bring myself so infinitesimally closer to those that stride the void choked heavens.

The very substance of creation is mine if I only utter so much as a sliver of his secrets. So great be he.

Ia, Yig.