Allow me to introduce myself. I am The Way Teller, and I have lived a life that some few would desire, and far more would abjure, for I am a Magi.

I was born the eldest of four sons and my early story is a dichotic tale; in the left ear I heard the motherly musings of freedom and in the right the fatherly demands of duty, whilst all around the clamour of a growing family constantly on the move. By the time I was twelve I had been the stranger in a strange place more times than my young mind knew how to encompass. Each new village, each new town, street, home, each new set of peers had me sorely tested, but by means of a terrible fury, I was never bested. Finally, my family came to rest in one place and where fury had long been a cherished source of freedom, I now found it a source of fear amongst those peers I now called dear. Duty demanded a tempering, and from the age of thirteen I trained in the Ways of the Warrior, my fury hardened and honed to an edge often turned to the aid of family, friends, and indeed passing strangers, and through such good action I received a name that meant “Unbreakable”.

I grew to adulthood, and the Way of the Warrior became a path of inner discovery. I stepped upon the Way of the Magi, and though still young, I became an Oracle to my tribe. But hearth and home was not for me. My young and impatient feet led me to travel to the Other Lands, following a similar path as that of my father before me, though alone and without the responsibilities he bore. Confident in my abilities, I travelled the most dangerous of Ways, constantly putting myself to the test, learning from each failure, each success. Decade upon decade passed, and the temper of my soul, the mettle of my mind, was rarely found wanting. I loved, I hated, I lost, I found, and all the while I wandered, I found I was waiting for a happening; an inevitable day that would signal my stepping back on the Way of the Magi. To begin my own Great Work.

Sure enough, one bright summer’s day, I met a Magi traveling through the same vale as I. Recognizing a fellow practitioner of the Art, this traveller asked me of my days, and with a smile I replied it would take me the rest of my life to Tell of my travels. He nodded, knowing sparkles in his eyes, and with a wave of his hand the Aetheric Mists parted and he showed me a place, one he called home; The Inner Sanctum he named it, and the Mists closed once more. I had, I realized, stepped once more upon the Way of the Magi. I ceased my wanderings, settled in the land at my feet, loved a woman I found there and entered the home she offered. Hanging my spear and bow above my head; I began the work of a Magi.

Firstly, I needed a Workbench, a desk perhaps, meant for the magic of words and yet also for the Great Works of the Magi. The travelling Magi, who back then simply called himself Easy, helped with the task, designing the Workbench; its Aetheric specifications, the manner of wards and other ‘safety features’ as he liked to call them that were needed. It took a good deal of time and effort to complete, but eventually both he and I were content with the work. I arranged the wonders I had gathered in my long wanderings atop the smooth surface and with some considerable satisfaction stepped back to marvel at what we had achieved.

Easy reached into the satchel he always wore, and placed a coin-sized curio on the desk. ‘A memento of our first work together, and your first as a true Magi’, he offered by way of explanation, and so saying he waved his hand and the Mists once more parted to reveal his home. He told me then that he had need of Magi with a certain…independence about them; Magi who might aid him when the time was right, and should I be inclined, there was a place for me at the table of The Inner Sanctum. He gave me a key, of sorts, and bid me attend the Inner Sanctum when I had recapitulated my life, for only then I would be ready for the Aetheric War, which, with his serious eye, he swore was soon to come; for had we all not heard the Creak, the Aetheric sound of the last Seal breaking? With that he bade me farewell, stepped into the Mists and was gone. I wondered for a while at this; his request and his warning, for such meetings are never by chance, and then, with a sardonic smile, took up my quill.

Thus, I became “The Way Teller”.

That was some three or four years past now, and sitting here at my Workbench, the travails of those days echoed in the patina of its overworked surface, I was at last able to reflect on my life, to recapitulate my deeds and chronicle them in this journal. And, in so doing, I found time to ponder on a mystery that had long vexed me, long vexed many a Magi before me; that of Atlantis. I know the Mythos behind the Fall, who doesn’t; the hubris of power, the indolence that too much comfort engenders, corruption, catastrophe brought about by jealous minds, the Hungering Powers, even natural disaster. All these and a panoply of wilder speculations…but never a reason. And, all the while I recounted my past days, lived in the present and prepared for the future, the answer, or at least part of it, lay on my desk in amongst the clutter of my tinkering’s. Something I often cast an abstracted gaze over as I mused; the curio that Easy had given me the day he returned home. Admittedly, it has a certain Aetheric feel to it, like holding a bottle with a bee in it, but back then my mind was turned to many things of import, my Lady being the greatest, and I thought little of it. Heavens, I used it as a paper weight for years. I even spilt my morning Hot Java coffee over it once. I’m sure that if I had possessed an Oracular back then, and if had I viewed the gift though that Oracular, my opinion would have changed that very instant. But, I didn’t, and there it sat all those years. That small, fine-toothed, coffee-stained gear sitting on my Workbench was in fact an artefact of great worth, and greater power.

Now, I have long known of the Observer’s works, and his fabled Timepiece; a fascinating experiment in Aetheric Travel, enabling the Magi wielding it to visit any event in past history for a short period of their own time. The Observer was of the Custodian Order, a terribly shy, retiring librarian who tinkered with time. He was an introvert to such an extreme case that he lived in a hermitage; an old windmill, on an island called Flores in the middle of the Atlantic. Now being a hermit can be problematic for a Magi as it is not only the interaction with the myriad worlds within the Aether from which a Magi draws inspiration and power from, but it’s also considered a lazy way for magi to avoid the Great Work. Some who avoid the calling do it kicking and screaming, some by plunging into other more absorbing distractions. I myself, so I now see, have to some extent avoided my own Works, seeking adventure and the thrill of the hunt. Though that isn’t to say it was all pointless, because I really rather enjoyed my errant wanderings. But the great work impels a Magi towards participation. Easy described it as being like the prolonged crafting of a fine wine whereby the passing years makes their coming participation all the more relevant and potent; the ‘uncorking’ something to be celebrated. However, some Magi deceive themselves that they can avoid it all together, making all manner of claims to strengthen their deluded stance, even going so far as to gather like-minded creatures around them in order to spread their delusional ravings, and project their frustrations onto others. Often these projections take the form of hatred and petty-tyranny and much damage is done in the name of their…petulance. Sometimes it can drive such a Magi quite mad, and then we must all be very wary.

So, seeking to come to terms with his shy nature and the compulsion of the Great Work, the Observer crafted a means by which he could observe but not be seen, watch without interacting, hence the moniker of ‘The Observer’. In today’s parlance I am sure he would have received a name a little less…poetic, but he sought no harm as far as is known, and was according to some, present in spirit only. And yet, through the crafting of the Timepiece, based on an old stopwatch he found in a drawer apparently, he was able to travel to any of the past locus of power and actually witness the event. Not a representation of them; the Timepiece is no VR headset, that’s for sure, but the actual event unfolding for the first and only time. As a result, the Observer’s power and reputation fast became legendary, not only by this singular achievement but also by that of his observations; the power they drew to him and perhaps, as discussed quietly in some quarters, the influence he may have had on…past events.

That is until the fateful day of his disappearance. There is sadly as much conjecture within the Custodians, and the other orders of the Magi, as to what fate befell the Observer as there is conjecture about Atlantis, and again much of it is worthless. But what can be said is that he had gone from all the worlds known to the Custodians. As far as they could ascertain the Observer had no family and being the recluse that he was, no friends of note, and was thusly found to be intestate. As is the accepted precedent in such cases, his estate was offered up at an Emporia Auction, in which the owners of the various Magical Emporia make a sealed bid for the entire estate — the winning Emporium being free to do with the collected estate as they wish; hodl, sell, or even burn. Sometimes they buy a peach, sometimes a lemon, and in this case, it was a peach. It was E.B Shriver’s Magical Emporium that acquired the Hermitage, and acquired a peach in the doing. For, amongst the horded books and head-high papers that stuffed the windmill hermitage, lay the Observer’s Timepiece. Within days the Timepiece had been privately sold to a Magi for a considerable sum, and it seemed the whole affair would become a salutary footnote in the Observer’s lore. However, a few months after the auction, the Timepiece was up for sale again, only this time as part of the new owner’s collection. It transpired that on using the Observer’s Timepiece the first, and only occasion, new owner discovered on his return to the present day that the Timepiece simply didn’t function again. Regardless of what was tried, nothing would allow for its Aetheric re-energization. So, the Magi offered it up for private sale and there it languished for many years, for there were no takers. After all, what Magi would be interested in a broken stopwatch? Until three weeks ago, not one offer was made.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Three weeks ago, as of the writing of this entry, I was leafing through the pages of an old tome I found many years ago, when my blood ran suddenly cold with shock and hot with excitement. There, in a chapter on ‘Time as Aetheric Metaphor’, was a coloured plate, an illustration of a coin-sized gear; fine-toothed, almost iridescent in colour. The caption read “The Observer’s Gear Works, used in the making of Aetheric Timepieces and the Aetheric Re-generation of the Observer’s Timepiece.” I looked up from the page and reaching out with trembling fingers, brushed the detritus from off my coffee-stained curio…and there sat the Observer’s Gear Works, staring right back at me.

Within the hour I had quickly and by then most calmly, purchased the Observer’s Timepiece at the owner’s asking price. Then returning to my Workbench in an excited instant, I set to the task that had fully flowered in my mind the moment I saw my coffee-stained curio for what it actually was. I had conceived a manner with which to resolve the question that vexed me so. I would find out why Atlantis fell. I would Witness the Fall of Atlantis…and not just the one cataclysmic event. I would pay Witness to it all; the events that led up to it, the catastrophe itself, and the aftermath. I would do it by observing the events and I would record them all in my journal; every last nuance, every last detail, the names, the places, the folk and their fears.

I had realized with utter clarity that I had set upon my own Great Work, finally.

But first I knew I would need to craft an Aetheric Timepiece; a tool to scour the Aetheric currents for an event at which to aim my intent; a focus on which to place my effort. For that I would approach the Inner Sanctum, for I had completed much of the recapitulation of my own travels, and I knew I would need a good deal of help to complete my Work. In addition, I was sure that my Work would be of welcome aid to the Sanctum in its efforts against the coming troubles, efforts I had long accepted I was willing to participate in. With the key the Easy had given as guide, I shifted into the Mists.

The entrance to the Sanctum, so Easy had told me, is through a Hedge Maze. Once through the maze there is, cut into a hillside, an opening of stone, with statues collected to greet one at the entrance, homunculi all; a cadre of stone security guard. Bearing the key Easy had given me, the cadre stayed still as the statues they are. After passing through the maze and the homunculi, I entered into a grand foyer with marble stone and gold accents, devoid of furniture or other accoutrements, or indeed any sign of other folk. In the middle of this foyer floated a black granite stone above a pedestal. My days have taught me that caution and recklessness are required in equal measure to live the life I have. But when the stone cracked open at the centre and blinked open a massive pupil, casting its baleful gaze upon me, I wondered then at my impetuous side, for I was looking into the disembodied eye of a Dragon and it was looking straight back at me, its intent seemingly malicious. Then it blinked closed, perhaps divining my intentions being of noble mark and I passed within. Passing the third and final test, of which I will not speak further, not now or ever, I entered a garden filled with fountains, greenery, and angelic set pieces, a place to commune and contemplate in idyllic surroundings. It was here I encountered the first denizens of the Sanctum and they greeted me with open arms and much delight. It was an emotional arrival, joyful and yet melancholy, and one in all honesty I did not expect, and for which I am and will remaining eternally grateful. These wonderful folk, all Magi, and of differing orders, at rest and repose here in the garden of the Sanctum, without animosity towards one or other, directed me inwards, through the Inner Garden to pass along a corridor, off which many doors led.

I could smell the familiar odour of old texts, books and scrolls, and knew there must be great stores of knowledge contained within the many rooms I passed. Finally, I came to a massive door of smooth timber, its face studded with great brass roundels, bound with metal of mercurial nature; at once solid and yet flowing. The doors opened of their own accord to a reveal a grand assembly room, the walls draped with tapestries that framed the focus of the room’s aesthetics; a great round table of polished oak, encompassed by chairs of chestnut and red leather. A figure on the far side of the room, who had been gazing out of the great bay windows turned as I entered. It was the Travelling Magi, the man I had come to know as Easy.

“Hello again, Way Teller,’ he said in that strong yet gentle voice I had come to know so well. ‘Welcome to the Inner Sanctum. I am, as you may have guessed already, E.B. Shriver. Please, sit down. We have many things to discuss, you and I, if you are willing?”

Now dear reader, I am stood at my Workbench, my tools and equipment arrayed before me, for I am on the cusp of my greatest adventure, the commencement of my Great Work, and if you are reading this then you have acceded to accompany me on my journey, my Aetheric travel through time. I have spent the intervening weeks in the Grand Library of the Sanctum, researching as deeply as I am able, and with their aid I crafted the Aetheric Timepiece. Now, with the help of the Inner Sanctum, I believe myself to be as best prepared as one can be. To quote a great Magi, “Between the time when the oceans drank Atlantis, and the rise of the sons of Aryas, there was an age undreamed of.” Well, now we will travel to the time before the oceans drank Atlantis and witness an age forever dreamed of.

I have donned my old travelling robes; their long familiar weight, and a little undelay armour of my own make, like a second skin to me. I carry my wand at my side, the Observer’s Gear Works in my satchel, one of the leather-bound journals my sweet Lady gifted me, a few slices of her best ginger cake, a flask of water and a biro, one of those NASA space pens that are supposed to work anywhere. In the palm of my hand, I hold the Observer’s Timepiece. I have it seems, prepared for this moment my entire life, and I feel the impetus of that preparation bearing me forward, the Aetheric flow of the Magical Life carrying me ever onward. I have kissed my Lady farewell. Not in the manner of a forever separation, but as a man might kiss his wife on leaving for his daily work, for I fully expect to be home before dark. The Aetheric Timepiece has located the locus of the event, low key, yet strong enough to guide my attention and my intent. My Chroniker, The Painter’s Chroniker, stands by the Workbench, a beacon to guide me home should I lose my Way. The Observer’s Timepiece is set, the duration of the observation short, just in case. The only thing that remains is to take a deep breath, calm my beating heart, press down on the knurled crown, and……CLICK!

The air pressure in my library goes from standard at sea level to what I can only imagine fifty meters of water pressure must feel like in an instant. Before I have chance to even flinch with the pain the pressure drops to mountain top rarity, my ears pop, and so does something behind me. I turn. The end of the library, where the French doors used to be, is now a ten-foot diameter globe of what can only be described as gold-dust sprinkled candy-floss. The face of the globe towards me is a gaping hole of shimmering Aetheric energy, deep purple intensifying to a bright, almost pink vanishing point; an Aetheric Gate, most definitely, but one that seems to extend tunnel-like beyond the walls of the library, into the Mists. Then I notice the silence. The Mists swirl around inside the tunnel mouth, the trees outside the windows still sway as they did moments ago, and no doubt that cheerful robin is chirping happily away as it slaughters every living invertebrate it can find, but I can’t hear anything, not even my own blood pumping hard against my ear drums, which it most definitely is.

I take a step forward without making a sound; no boot scrape on the floorboards, no swish of my robe against my trousered legs, and actually check I made the move. Taking a mental note of my situation, like a time stamp in a novel, I walk up to the waiting tunnel with a determined stride, and step inside.