Beginning Of Time
Long ago, we lost a piece of our star.
It ripped through the void, a bright streak against the dark, fleeing our sight. A flash from something to nothing... the light of ghosts, the memory of home.
The spectre turned scout; for it crashed into a planet most promising. It formed the heart in Embervale's midst — Illuminating a hollow in which rainwater pooled, and life began to bloom.
A fascinating first. A kaleidoscope of potential.
We had to see it for ourselves.
Stoic and stalwart as they were, the twin mountains allowed our entry. We sampled, scored, and savored all we could before turning our gaze back to the firmament... when the guards of creation denied our leave, barring the gate inside the crimson core. We pleaded and begged.
It was not enough.
Fire, fire, burning pyre. We scorched a hole into the sky. The mess we made let the moonlight reach low; reach us — chaining the sea of stars inside a marble that hung above like a taunt.
One could imagine their palms outstretched, clasping around something that cannot, will not be touched. It was out of reach.
It was not enough.
Our gaze turned inward. Downward. Searching for a source beyond Flame and Spark inside the core. That's where we found it. Another subject to prod.
The rotting fruit with a thousand seeds, asleep, yet breathing — then rousing, reeling, reaching.
We left it buried, sealed beneath words of warning and layers of grime.
We were not enough.