Snippets and Stories: (B) The Star Maker (Pt. 1)

"Magic." some people said. And certainly their innate abilities must have seemed that way to the Dredges.

Blindside, the charismatic and somewhat quaint favorite, was an Astral Walker--or one whom could shift to the astral plane, where one needn't their eyes to see. The Lyre, named for their favored instrument, a cunning minstrel whose deft hands and voice as mesmerizing as the pull of a Siren's song, were peerless. And some did indeed call him exactly that--a landlocked Siren. Few could resist the hypnotic tug on their Heartstrings, and the Lyre pulled them along as easily as he did his chordophone.

Of course there were others of less renown.

Lesser known, but less for naught else were other hidden gems in society.

Briar who was ever adrift upon the Zephyr's that whispered of the Heart's Song, where they went, so too did the Verdance and Prismatic Arc follow in their wake.

The curious little creature was amidst the scarce few capable of Manipulation--the only other marked individual at present being an elusive character whose ethereal blue pallor mimicked that of the icy Arctic-Alpine clime from whence they haled. A rare sight of elegance and grace, whose flowing and lush locks ended in their iconic fiddlehead curve.

Though not numbered amongst those of the branch of Manipulation, ever present with dear Beryl was their companion, a taciturn man who complemented his smaller companion well, not just in their silent understanding as a duo, but in their Arts as well.

Whereas Briar was an Manipulator whose power stemmed from asserting and projecting themselves unto an organic construct, Zephyr was a Animator of high synchronicity, and exerted his influence over the insensate, and was most commonly seen manipulating an obsidian sword, black and impenetrable as the stygian seas.

Though they took up little of the limelight and likewise appreciation, many were content. At that thought...

Just the other week Blindside had been mobbed, the man too kind to push away the overzealous fervor and support of his fans who were far too close, much to his discomfort. Blindside was the gentle soft-spoken sort despite his large frame, and such commotions put him ill at ease.

In this, the Star Maker didn't envy him. The publicity was rather alarming and wearisome. And oft unpleasantly obsessive.

There was already enough white noise, he needn't more.

The Star Maker stared out over the nightscape, littered with a thousand lights that spoke of a thriving community. A starry sky beneath his feet.

The static grew louder.

But there was one thing he desired more out of his lot in Life.

He sighed and raised hand, turning it palm up and presenting it to the true heavens. In his palm there formed scintillating stardust, the swirling mass gradually growing.

With a gentle wave, it dispersed upon the slumbering city.

May sleep find them sweet in their Dreams.

Star Maker was known only in his advanced psychokinesis, and telepathy.

An ability that troubled him greatly for never would he know of true silence, and nor would there ever be peace even beneath the open night sky.

Every whisper, every shapeless, wordless, voiceless, thought, rang clear as the first bell of the grand cathedral in the reverent silence of a Sunday morn', that hence called the faithful into her halls.

He had since learned to ignore them. For there was always someone in need. Always needing more than even his endless abilities could give.

And yet it wasn't the deafening din of the voices that prompted the Star Maker to sequester themselves far, far, away from all others.

Nay, it was the warmth that blossomed in his chest, for he was the fallen star.

In him lay dormant a simple ability borne not of might nor mind.

He pulled the shawl tighter around his shoulders and set off back to his secluded cottage home.

In his Heart a simple desire, pure and true.

And in his hands materialized a steaming cup of luxuriously creamy hot cocoa, the marshmallows melting smoothly into a dollop of thick, creamy, delightful sweetness.

The Star Maker felt a small smile pull at his lips, rosy cheeks chilled from the night lifting just slightly at the familiar scent, despite himself. It was comforting.

In his chest beat a Heart that was still that of a child's.

Wishes were his to grant, so long as they were his desire pure and true.

His smile faltered at the thought.

So why then could he not wish away their sadness? The needless suffering? The famine and disease, and impermanence of Life?

But that too was a lie. He knew why.

And he clutched the mug between his hands, clinging to the sparse warmth and comfort.