Tis a well known rubric among us that a tome is no mere inanimate stone, but a living thing with will and force of its own. When a spine cracks open, cover falls and pages yawn wide, chance does not govern what folio presents itself. No, the character of the codex itself speaks to you. Trying desperately to impute some wisdom to your obdurate mind.
Each book has its own persona—forceful, subtle, arrogant, generous. This codex is no different. Even though it is not yet fully formed—ink being freshly etched on pages as we speak—it seeks to exert its will over your humble interlocutor. These past nights since we last spoke, we have been locked in a desperate struggle. In attempting to shape it, guide it, groom it, the vile thing hissed and spat, raged and roiled, capered and caviled!
It taxed us.
But with the guidance of a distant Finnish hermit, we have brought the thing to bear. It's proverbial reins shortened. And so it is, through this glimmering font, we can offer you at last a clear glimpse of the skin and bones of our incunabulum. Cast your wards and behold!
Truly, we have only momentarily stayed this beast. There's no tell in how long our circles shall contain it. But gaze upon it and drink in what you can. The demon will likely change form as it attempts to beguile and bargain for its escape before the end.
—The Burning Wheel