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Long, long ago, in an age now past, this star was as paradise. Men knew naught of fear, loss, despair... With lifetimes unto eternity, their days were peaceful and bright.
Of its magic were born myriad creations.
Mankind’s spires towered proud, their stones never to crumble. Even the dark of night would softly smile to see the shining crystal nestled within. Within those walls, the people laughed and loved to their hearts’ content.
A solitary man stands in the street. His robes are black, as is the custom. Only the mask concealing his face differs from others’ in shape and color.
It marks this man as a leader. He is a most powerful mage.
“Early as always, I see.” Beside the man, a companion appears. A beloved and trusted friend. Soon, another will arrive, and the trio will revel until dawn. Just as they have time and time again.
This age, now long past... will always be his paradise.
The end arrives all too suddenly.
Calamity swallows the star. Meteors rain in cataclysmic deluge as if to scour away all life. Land buckles; cities burn; blood flows.
The powerful mage and his clever fellows create a god that will stabilize the star. ...Sacrificing half of mankind to do it.
The dark god they birth does its work.
When the danger has passed, the people gaze upon their ruined world.
“We must put this right.”
“We shall return to paradise.”
They further sacrifice unto their god.
Yet some would oppose them...
“We must move forward.”
“What’s done is done; the future awaits.”
These souls create a brighter god to challenge the others’ dark deity.
The gods clash for days without end. At last, the Light of the future— the bright god emerges victorious.
The decisive blow is so strong, it sunders both Darkness and the star...
Thus does one world become fourteen.
Light triumphs with a sundering blow. The powerful mage and his allies manage to withstand the impact. Barely.
When he opens his eyes... As the star lies shattered, so too do the souls upon it.
“Unnngh... Aaah...” Pitiful moaning of malformed creatures... They can no longer shape words. Language, culture, knowledge—forgotten.
Such an outcome is unbearable.
The man throws himself into restoring his star, his people... his paradise.
Decades... Centuries... Millennia pass.
As he works tirelessly, the wretched creatures begin to learn. They speak in new tongues. They worship new gods. They forge new histories.
He looks upon this and is repulsed. These wretches are fragile and weak. They can barely comprehend magic. Ignorant, intolerant, misbegotten husks. Fighting each other without aim or end.
Their pitiable lives are fleeting. In the simplest of ways, they die and die.
Yet they claim the mantle of “mankind”? He looks upon this and is repulsed.
No matter what he does... No matter how much time passes... The hatred and heartbreak remain.
Long, long years have passed since the star and its people were sundered... Yet the man still lives... Still fights to reclaim his paradise.
At times, he mingles with the wretches, assuming false names and false lives. Today is no different.
With borrowed eyes, he scorns the world.
Back curled under exhaustion. Sigh harmonic to a heavy countenance.
Before him stands a cluster of miscreants.
Gaze shrewd enough to pierce the spirit, the man spots a familiar hue... The precise color of an old friend’s soul. A broken relic of paradise...
But he has already passed an eternity with hope and grief. He has watched them die. Forgotten them. Now, he simply does what can be done. Grasping the last wisp of a dream that stubbornly fails to fade.
A lone player in the tale of the star— his monologue an elegy.
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