Chaos

There is a mountain at the edge of the world, and upon it sits a rock with many burning eyes and many snarling mouths. Each gibbers unintelligibly, telling its own story. But on the seventh minute of the seventh hour of the seventh day of the seven month of every seventh year, the voices all pause for a moment, before uttering a series of syllables, foreign, strange, and unusually forgettable. Scholars and pilgrims travel to the rock, hoping to parse an iota of meaning from the fragmented memories of these strange words.