The History of Grigoros

Note: This is not an official compilation, but a guess as to how the scrolls would read in chronological order.

Oblivion lost — paradise torn —
Perfection fouled by shape and form.
Chaos in the utter black
Spread its brood to rend and rack.
A single seed cast tendrils wide
To shred and split, spoil and divide.

From the fragments of the nothingness
Became the First who drowsed to dream
Of before what was had ever been —
Of vanished void and stolen bliss.


Scattered stars in dark gulfs bloomed,
And Titans sprang from upstart wombs.
Substance stirred the eldest night,
And worlds uncounted took flight
To whirl unchecked through the abyss
And woke the First from dreams of bliss.

The first was many, and many one,
All anguished that they could not be.
He hated all that they could see
And sought to undo what had been done.


The First consumed what Chaos spawned,
But with each death a new world dawned
And with each feast a growing dread:
The taint of being through the First was spread.
And so the First the First devoured
Till only one would remain doomed and soured.

Wearily he fell upon an infant world
And longed to sleep and longed to dream
That he himself had never been.
Within the deep he coiled and curled.


In the Golden Age of Men he came
As a serpent with a tail of flame.
A dreaming god none dared to wake,
Until the Silver Men's mistake.

They stirred him from the Isle of Bliss
And begged he grant them all they wished.
An altar and a hall they raised
And in the dark they prayed and praised.

The First denied them their small requests
Instead he gave them perfect peace
Oblivion and true release.
And these became the first men blessed.


When the Men of Silver all were gone,
The gods began the Age of Bronze.
And Grigoros the First returned
To the sleep for which he yearned.
But the Men of Bronze in constant wars
Battered down the temple doors.
The First awoke with hateful wrath.
He whispered in their sleeping ears
New ways to hasten widows' tears
And spurred them on their doomward path.


Now he stirs in troubled dreams
Where naught that is is as it seems.
And we who keep his name divine
Await his coming and the time
The First will bring us perfect bliss
With whispers as a lover's kiss—
When he shall rise and bring to naught
Our pain and grief and fear and woe
And all the torments we can know
With all that Chaos' cursed brood has wrought.

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