Chapter Text
In the beginning...well, perhaps there is no certain way to draw such a neat boundary.
*Long ago*, there was nothing.
Nothing spent it's remaining millennia being bored about the state of things, before it decided to change.
After a brief period of wanting for more, nothing became something.
And, that something made more something.
And, THAT something made more nothing, which became more something in the end.
*This* is what we know as the creation of our world.
Our great and powerful Klod in the sky, Klourm, saw it so,
so it goes, so it goes.
Our elegant flora, our ravenous fauna.
Our crystal-clad fields, our smooth and wavering deserts.
All for us, all for us, so it goes, so it goes.
A promising draft, to be certain.
And then, it disappeared.
No thunder announced the departure. No divine farewell echoed across the sky. The work simply stopped one moment, and...never resumed the next.
The twin suns hung just over the horizon, and have not gone for a nap in many days.
Our lands, beautiful as they are, were left crusting away at the seams.
Some creatures had complete bodies, but barbaric, animalistic instincts.
Some instincts existed without creatures to hold them.
What is one to do, taking residence as a finished product in an unfinished world?
One that, inherently, doesn't need them anymore?
They, and we, got to work on accommodating it for our needs.
Our ancestors, The Whatchamacallits, according to tales passed from long ago, elected to call our Planet ProzyLand.
This was specifically because the name sounded like something someone might finish later.
And, like their creator,they never did.
In the downtime of Klourm's absence, they built. The world had many natural wonders, which only further saddened the people, knowing they may never get to see their creators full vision for their fair planet.
So, long before the age of antiquity,
If Klod would not finish their story, they reasoned,
they would have no choice but to write one themselves!
Thus the prophecy was forged.
It first spoke of the history of the people.
The hardship they endured,
and the hardships they had YET to endure.
Most notably, it spoke of a band of heroes who would one day attempt to free them from this hardship in their mysterious ways.
Who needed Klod, when you had something so much better, so much more relatable, hidden away in your own homeland?
The Prophecy Read:
"A world of clay and care applied,
the tears of love planted inside.
Her ichor black, which cut like fire,
brought our ruin with hellish choir.
Shaped unwholly, with power and grace,
The Ohne showed its terrible face.
But now comes hope, our steady redeemers;
From the shadows come restless dreamers!
The first here, the kid, who would offer us Stagnation.
The second hero, the heir, who would bring us our damnation.
The third hero, the shell, sworn to forge us our salvation.
In the wake of the birth of the faerie,
the heroes would face the grand adversary.
Twice in dimension,
with only one friend.
The demonic child
would bring our end.
The heroes take guidance attached at their hip,
who acclimated all life to hell's grip.
But, in the end, there is only one choice:
*One* hero is crowned, and beloved for their voice.
The others, the failures, must give up their life,
lest all the world fall, strife by old strife."
The prophecy spread across ProzyLand like moss across stone.
It reached the ears of a force from far beyond ProzyLand's depths,
which therefore possessed the most dangerous freedom possible.
This horrible beast, The Ohne, previously had no purpose.
It existed as a ruthless parasite that latched onto whichever it thought it could subside on the longest.
Adaptable as ever, it decided then and there that if the prophecy demanded a great evil, then a great evil would have to exist.
If the world required opposition to fulfill its destiny, then someone would need to oppose it with proper enthusiasm.
And if fate insisted upon a confrontation, then Ohne would make absolutely certain the confrontation happened.
Thus a being born from absence began the slow work of becoming everything, and of everything becoming *it*.
Back in the cities, the people reached their own conclusions.
Prophecies, they reasoned, rarely fulfilled themselves by chance. They required participants.
Committees were formed. Councils debated. Scholars argued and argued as the matter as relayed to more and more responsible people.
Eventually a tradition formed; first as a desperate experiment, then as our lifelong ritual.
Four times a year, a set of four travelers would be sent into the world to fulfill the prophecy yet.
Two children, to fulfill the mantle of both The Kid & The Heir.
One professionally average nobody, to fill the mantle of the Shell, and to watch over the children.
And, a guardian fairy from beyond the great blue sky, to guide and protect the travelers along their way.
They would wander,
Best great opponents,
Lose to greater opponents,
Learn to love,
and then blow away into the dust of the earth.
And, when, or if, the quartet failed,
another set would be sent the following year.
And the next.
And the next.
And the next.
Thus, the challenge of the restless dreamers. A rite of passage for any capable Thingamajig who fit criteria.
The unfinished world continued writing its own ending, piece by piece by piece by piece by piece. As it has for centuries!
No matter how long it takes,
we WILL create our own meaning.
So it goes, so it goes.
Will the year of 2010 A.B. prove the same. . .?