Chapter Text

Prologue : The Continent

Once upon a time, there was a painted world. A world of gestrals, grandis…and ghosts. An old world, older than one of its creators anyway, with no more stories to tell, save one. A cycling story told again…and again…and again. But whatever choices were made, whatever details were altered, the story always began again on a shore at night. This shore. This night.

The night was the sort better suited to be captured by paint and brush than by ink and words. Blue stars burned through sheets of clouds rising from the wine-dark sea as soft waves lapped on the rocky shore. A night that seemed gentle at first glance, but it was a two-faced gentleness meant to lure complacence, a duplicity which could be seen in the thick shadows carved out of the cliffs even as moonlight illuminated their faces in sharp relief.

It was in one of these shadows where the first ghost waited, his back stooped as he leaned more of his weight into an elegant cane. His face was harsh and uncompromising, as though it had been sculpted from the same material as the cliffs around him. A tension in his legs and shoulders gave the impression of a coiled snake, motionless, but not at rest. He watched the ship crossing the sea with solemnity, as though he had some deeper insight into the inevitability of its arrival. A stray breeze swept his black coat behind him like wings, his unwavering gaze facing into the wind.

The second ghost skulked in the thinner shadows closer to the shore, scuttling between the rocks like a crab. Constantly in motion, a single frame would capture him as a blur, his face haloed by the white fur lining the hood of his coat. Silver strands burned through his dark hair like stars, framing his weary face even as the rest of him melted into the background. He was an ambivalent man, determination and despair warring in his face. His hands shook, though this detail would not be as visible to a viewer. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the ship, tears gleaming in the corners as he failed to decide where to wait for the ship’s arrival.

There were no gestrals here, nor grandis, but monsters lurked here instead. They were more native to this world than the ghosts, perhaps, if a later addition, though their ancestors had been painted into the landscape long ago. The world had decided to call them nevrons, an inventive name that their creator approved of. Once intended as manifestations of the landscape, they’d been given a more purposeful existence in their latest incarnations. But even the youngest ones, those who had come to be long after their originators had all gone, still carried a stubborn vein of recollection. Some more than others, of course, but all of them still seemed to remember, after a fashion, their original role in this world. It was, perhaps, an inevitable result of outsourcing their creation.

The ship ground into the shore, and the world held its breath. The curtain raised, the drama began. The ship had ferried a god to this shore, surrounded by grief. The grief, of course, did not recognize itself as grief any more than the god knew herself to be a god, so instead they descended from the ship in the forms of humans, numerous and varied in color, shape, and size. It made for a visually dynamic tableau, at the very least. The god was painted in stunning colors, a drop of daylight, as if the canvas itself understood that this was one of its gods. When the god and the humans stepped inland, the first ghost emerged from the shadow, allowing them to see him before he struck. Then the hordes of nevrons descended upon them.

A third ghost watched the scene unfold from the top of the cliffs, glowing white in the moonlight. Perhaps one of the sets of eyes on the shore might have noticed her, if they’d had time to examine their surroundings, but at a glance she seemed to just be part of the scenery. A painter would need a very fine brush, perhaps made of a single boar’s hair, to meticulously pull the faint contrast lines across the canvas that would shape her form. Easy to see, if you knew where to look, but unlikely to be looked for. A mask covered half of her face, hiding her expression. She held her breath and watched the violence unfold below her.

This was where the story had begun. Again and again. With a destination that was just as set, no matter how many times the story repeated. And of course it had been told again and again. Thus was the role of tragedies. But here, the story, again, with the humans dashed against the rocks. The ghosts faded back into the shadows as the handful of survivors scattered into the wind. One survivor was watched thoughtfully by the third ghost, whose motives had remained nebulous and clandestine in each telling of this story. She descended the cliffs and followed her chosen survivor, a curious deviation. As she left the shore behind, an uncharacteristic resolve settled itself on her brow.

Well, this was a new twist for the story to take. Let us explore the turns of this version. Perhaps it will turn out for them, this time.