Prologue: A Maker Wonders
With their focus on an inky void beyond time and space, a Maker thought to themselves a poem.
At the wave of four of six hands, four Gifted were to be gathered.
The first, a soothsayer, both empowered and tormented by the truth he spoke.
The second, a liar, both saved and doomed by the lies she told.
The third, a binder, trying endlessly to pay for the bonds he broke.
The fourth, an artist, pursuing the change of others while unwilling to fit anyone’s mold.
Their fates were now tethered.
For each would soon be a player in a wondrous game.
At the clasping of the last two hands, two Gifted were sent a prayer.
One, a star, lamenting the spotlight she endured.
The other, a priest, who for their god, only held a glare.
Already, together their fates were secured.
Both would soon end their roles as players in a wondrous game.
And once the Maker was done, a visage of the six Gifted from their poem were held in the palms of six hands.
Two black and empty dots assigned the role of eyes looked over them.
One amongst you has to be in the running to replace my sister. Maybe even two. But who and why?
The eyes focused on their hand holding the star, who lounged in the shade of a tree wearing a frown.
Could it be you, so full of will but so restrained in its expression?
The eyes swapped to their hand holding the priest, teaching his congregation with a smile.
Maybe you, with your faith in the rules but not in me?
The eyes shifted to their hand holding the soothsayer, who laid on his side watching tv with a frown.
Possibly you, who chooses to live with the truth and never change it?
The eyes moved to their hand holding the liar, who watered her garden with a smile.
Or you, having accepted your fate?
The eyes wandered to their hand holding the binder, working hard in his forge yet paying no attention.
Potentially you, steadfast in what you want to do?
The eyes finally landed on their last hand holding the artist, who drew in class with full focus.
Might it be you, so similar to her in expression?
A smile would’ve formed if there had been a mouth to make one.
Who knows which? I sure don’t.
The Maker laughed to themselves, their voice an odd, distorted noise overlapping the cries of thousands of beasts, each impossibly distinct from the other.
Oh War! While I hate the thought of you retiring, I love the focus you’ve gifted me. Recompense, shall soon commence, and I’ll realize something great.
The eyes locked back onto the artist, who was still drawing.
We start after class, Orange would hate it if I interrupted your schooling.
