The mist trailed an unmade land, a land so white it was like a virgin canvas waiting to be painted. There was no floor to tread, nor way to discern between up or down. This was a place of things that could be, but weren’t. But it wasn’t entirely without form. Here, a great egg stood. Perhaps an egg which was yet to be, or one that already was. Not big. Not small. For there was nothing to compare it to. It cracked, a fractured line running through it. Next it echoed, a brittle thing which filled the void. And when the egg split, it bore no chick or babe, but rather a single scion. The scion
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