Philosopher Klaus

Betokened by the moons pale leer, philosopher Lyles was prepending forloren stratagems of war, his thoughts a zeugmatic tempest, bethinking sorely. The devisings seem’d forlet and subordinate, y-waxen meek beneath the burthen of mickle bethinking; he bethought him, "Wherefore is this fordone?". He had a theory. He slowly and deliberately disrolled the parchment, its edges crackle-fract, appeared apt to wither with the zephyrs. The writ was illegible, seeming the eldest English, the ink effaced as though it had ne’er glimpsed the sun. “He espied it in a hovel, the walls rent as though they had ne’er known mend. Beneath the loom of the bosk, he beheld the esoterica, seeming nigh… automatal? Nay… that were amiss, the automatal engine, wrought for… war? ‘Impossible.’”It was past all ken of its age, the unkenned speech unfolding the cunninges of the engine. It appeared tailored for dread and a puissant engine of war. Should the Battle of Echelon be lost. Yet the battle had been wrought to victory. Wherefore, then, lay this here? Hid in a hovel, buried ‘neath dust and moss, as though biding for some hand to uncover it? He stooped nearer. The margins bore notes — not of stratagem, but of contemplation. Queries. Scruples. One line caught his eye: ‘To forge that which must ne’er be used is to hazard the courses of history.’ Klaus felt the heft thereof. This was no mere forgotten draught. It was a relique of dread. A monument to despair. And now, it lay within his grasp. He harbored a conceit.