“In the Dream, the world remains unbroken. In the Dream, I remember who we were, and who we must not become again.”
I was born when the stars still sang.
Before the great sundering of land and lineage, before the betrayal that split continents and kindred alike, I opened my eyes beneath a canopy of twilight, where starlight pooled in silver wells and the breath of Elune was still warm upon the wind. The stars whispered ancient truths into the ears of those who dared to listen. I was one such soul. A child of starlit heritage, cradled in the arms of a world still whole.
Back then, the constellations were our teachers. Each light above was a name, a lesson, a promise… and I knew them all by heart. The sky was a scroll upon which Elune wrote our fates in glowing ink. I was born not merely into the world, but into the memory of what the world had once aspired to be. The stars were still young, and so too was I… hungry, luminous, unbroken.
My first memories are not of words or faces, but of light… moonlight, strewn like silver petals across the surface of the Well. In those waters, I saw not only reflection, but revelation: the sky’s own dreaming mirrored back in every ripple. They shimmered like living constellations, as if the stars themselves had descended to bathe. It was there my world began… not in swaddling cloth or cradle-song, but in the silent hum of something vast and sacred.
My mother would sing to me in the Old Tongue, her voice a wind through ancient boughs. Her lullabies were older than the empire… songs of starlight, wildflowers, and the breath of Elune as it stirred the leaves. Each note carried meaning, memory, and mourning, though I would not understand the weight of those words until much later.
My father was quieter. A scholar of earth and essence, his magic was the kind that pulsed beneath roots and swam unseen in the veins of rivers. He taught me not by lesson, but by presence. By silence. He showed me how to feel magic… not in the hands, but in the marrow. To know its flavor in the air before a storm. To sense its ache in stone before a quake. He was of balance and harmony, as was my mother… a path now buried beneath history, whispered only in ruins and faded scrolls. Harmony was neither wholly druidic nor arcane, but a sacred accord between the two: intellect braided with instinct, logic tempered by wildness.
From them I learned what it meant to be whole.
Not in dominance. Not in purity. But in harmony… to listen to the stars and the soil in equal measure. To walk not above the world with arcane fire, nor beneath it with beastly tooth, but through it… a soul suspended between sky and stone.
And so this is where I begin…