When I finally awakened from my drug-induced stupor, the first things I noticed were the Adenacra Globules, the nearest a mere mile from the high balcony we were all lined up in. The massive sphere, almost a mile in diameter, was already being caressed by two, three probing tentacles, each long and spindly arm culminating with what I could only say was a powerful spark plug. Having been a matter of legend for all these years, witnessing the gawdy monstrosity from close quarters was a disillusional experience—for one, it meant that divinity was no longer just the content of contentious debates; for another, it meant that we were looking at history with irreversibly wrong perspectives. One way or another, on that day, I became the prisoner I am still, and over the course of these months, it has become an uncharacteristically easy choice between asserting my existence as a Senator of Sepulchra, where I am from, against asserting my liberation from its ideological throes by "getting distilled into a higher plane", as it were. I now serve in Heaven, and I do not lament the loss of kingship.
The Adenacra Globule C-3144K—named for its size (C), cardinality (3144) and function (K)—was responsible for a small star-system in the Japonica Drift, and even as we watched, a fourth tentacle unattached itself from the spine-mounted quiver and extended itself to the shimmering blue surface. A Tormontell—a race of people we had known earlier by the more ubiquitous name of "Gods"—archiver stood before us, a little under 12-feet tall, surveying the array before his/her eyes (we had no way to tell the men from the women), his/her coal-black eyes hidden behind taut epicanthal folds, dull grey hair cascading down his/her shoulders. I could tell he/she was an archiver by the flowing mud-brown ropes he/she was garbed in, trapped gently around the waist by a broad probably-wooden belt-band.
It was raining on Tormont.
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