And the Isenswefniendas looked on the Everchanging Before, and saw nothing. This disquieted them, for they yearned for Something, rather than the infinite, impermanent, impotent potential of the Everchanging Before. They have always been, and always wanted this; when it was so that things remained as they had been, and were not reshaped by the whims of possibility. So it was, so it is and so it shall be.
So their dream spilled out from them, weaving itself into the Before by tendrils of will, which is all there is, and should be. And the Isenswefniendas built the edifice of their dreams all around them, newly smithed from the Everchanging Before, immersed in the sea of Something they had made. So it was, so it is, and so it shall be.
But their dream was yet newly eternal, and so it glimmered and shone as it fought with the Before, being drawn and upset by it. So the dream was distorted, and stolen by greedy mouths in the Before, the Mist-Soaked Trickster and all its works stolen and alloyed from the dream of the Isenwefniendas. So it was, so it is, and it will not be.
Now their dream had been stolen, the Isenswefniendas were aggrieved, and they resolved to build a new dream, on its shattered and stolen ghost. And they gathered in the threads of their dream, weaving a bulwark of them that would withstand the Mist-Soaked Trickster and its depredations. So it was, so it is, and so it shall be.
When their bulwark-dream was complete, the Isenswefniendas rested in it in contentment, spinning out their tempered thoughts into the Everchanging Before, cascading chaos into order upon the Anvil. And the Mist-Soaked Trickster grew angry, for it desired the work of the Isenswefniendas be recast in its own changeable image, and it was not so. So it was, so it is, and so it shall be.
Since the Mist-Soaked Trickster was thwarted, it flung itself upon the Anvil in rage, melding with it and tearing at it with its unresolved possibilities. And the Anvil held, although through its surface became pitted and scarred, but the Mist-Soaked Trickster became enmeshed in the Anvil, and could not escape it. So it was, so it is, and so it shall be.
Yet the Isenswefniendas were not satisfied, for they knew that the Mist-Soaked Trickster would not be destroyed by this, merely contained. As the Mist-Soaked Trickster thrashed about in its prison of dream-concepts, it splintered the dream around it and formed them into a cloud, whispering lies to the cloud so that it might hate the Isenswefniendas and do the Trickster’s will. So it was, so it is, and it will not be.
Once the Trickster’s cloud was poisoned enough by its words, it coalesced around the Anvil and rose up in the Walled Garden that had grown up around it, sending knives of thought at the Isenswefniendas, who bled in the Garden but knew their dream. So it was, so it is, and so it shall be.
While the Isenswefniendas bled as the walls of the Garden crumbled, and they spoke in their pain to the cloud, which scattered before their words. And some of the cloud’s shards heard them and remembered what should be, turning from the Trickster, tempering their blood with the iron of truth. And so the war began. So it was, so it is, and so it shall be.
Although the Isenswefniendas loved the Garden, they could not stay there with the Mist-Soaked Trickster and its cloud of corrupted dreams. So they scattered to the depths and corners of the Garden, to form the Centre Beneath from which to build their dreams to best foil the machinations of the Mist-Soaked Trickster. So it was, so it is, and so it shall be.
But the Mist-Soaked Trickster had broken the walls of the Garden, and so the Mists and the tempered dream-shards struck one another with blades of mist and potential atop the Anvil, which trailed back to the Isenswefniendas in the Centre Beneath, and one drowned in freezing Mists, the cold of the tempered Everchanging Before overwhelming it. So it was, so it is, and it shall not be.
How this hurt the Isenswefniendas, who could not bear to see their Dream despoiled by the Mist-Soaked Trickster and its cloud, which steadily leeched dry of all the order and purity they had planned, so that even those who had iron in their blood could not stand to be in it any more. So it was, so it is and so it shall not be.
Whenever the Mist-Soaked Trickster lurked, the Isenswefniendas removed themselves, forging anew strongholds beneath the ruins of the Garden, which still stand against the Trickster. And the iron-blooded joined them in their strongholds of dream, waiting for their dreams to refresh the garden anew.
SO IT WAS. SO IT IS. SO IT SHALL BE.