Prologue: The Crime of Creation

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Emotions are what drive us onward.

But are they really just signals in our heads?

The shards of a mirror slowly rotated in place as they drifted through the black, its silver splinters reflecting a gray gallery of paintings. As they passed by, images of cities glinted up in a flash, broken in the next by sprawling forests, lush fields, or wastelands covered with graves. In short, it was a lot of contrasts displayed by the shards, and yet, they shared a single trait: The world they showed had just been destroyed. Everything was over.

Or it should have been.

Standing between the murdered memories was a group of three people. They were the cause of this disaster and looked at least somewhat upset. "I don't think this is what she meant," remarked an uncertain voice, belonging to a middle‑aged man with long, disheveled hair. His sunken eyes were constantly closed, blind to the way ahead, for he was the Dealer that Gave History. It was a silly title, considering that with their old world gone, no history was left to give.

In response to his remark, the Grandmother of Gossiping Worms, his companion, nodded her wrinkled head. "You are right," she agreed with aged voice and shifted on top of her seat, a mountain of a million Worms cascading from her head. Her minions, however, usually so talkative, were silent. With everyone dead, no gossip remained they could whisper to each other.

"However, didn't they look different right after we lost?" The Grandmother's words held a trace of sadness as she remembered, and she wasn't wrong in her observation. The shards did indeed not appear the same as before. "What happened?" At her perfectly reasonable question, the last of their group started to yell.

"Why do you ask me, hag!? While you were asleep, I wrote the perfect story to patch up this mess, and yet, it didn't work! Clearly, someone must have made some kind of mistake!" The person who had spoken was a formless man, with neither hands nor head, and yet a stylish beret floating above him. Like everyone else, he was chained by his name, turned into the Poet who Omits Endings and Beginnings.

"You have done what?!" The blood of the Dealer froze in his veins, and he hurriedly took out his Diary. It was a thick book that was home to all records of the past, and it confirmed his fears. This had never been part of the plan. "Why did you simply start on your own?"

The beret floating in the air was silent as the shards of the world fell like leaves all around them. It was indeed like the Dealer had said. Right before everyone else had woken up, the Poet had tried to fulfill Her Wish, and yet, he failed, completely and utterly. There was nothing he could say in defense, so naturally, the Dealer didn't receive an answer either. "Ugh." The blind man snapped shut his Diary, massaging his temple while the Grandmother hid her face between her Worms. But unlike her and the Dealer, her Worms were extremely elated about the Poet's selfishness. With this, they had something to gossip again!

"The Poet who can't do anything!"
"True to his name!"
"Typical, isn't it?"
"I always knew he was stupid!"
"Let's call him the Dull Poet instead!"

On, and on, and on their mean mouths jeered below their hollow eyes, their bodies swaying around the Grandmother's head. As usual, the target of their taunts soon couldn't take it anymore and grabbed something from the void.

"YE NO MORE BRAIN THAN STONE, WORMS!" The Poet glared at the writhing mass from eyes that could not be seen. "YE THINK YE CAN DO BETTER?! FINE!" Enraged, the quill and inkwell he had taken out were thrown at the Worms, but before either could come close, both items disappeared without a trace. Seeing that pitiful display, the mass of slithering strings quickly formed a mocking choir, whirling around their owner as they sang:

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