Fiction or nonfiction—
are we all not allowed to dream?
The Case of:
The Rainbow’s Cane
Written by Calum Traveler
And so it began. A simple tale, written by a simple person with low hopes for the world.
The Creators arose from the void. Known to many by different names, these beings, “Ascendants”, decided to create that which they could rule as their own, apart from the vastness of the multiverse that had already existed.
And so they made. They made a World, Oneuywa. They gave it a Sun and two Moons; none of these had names yet. Two of them had a Son, after which they named the Sun of their world in honor, Cypher. Their Son would have a Daughter,… who would go insane, or so the tales told.
The Daughter of the Son would go and make war, attempting to overthrow these Ascendants from their roles as the Creators of the World. There would be much heartbreak in this war; it would be called the Cataclysm War for the multitude of cataclysmic changes of the world that would follow.
The Daughter would banish her own father to be trapped within the Sun for all eternity, and so the task fell to the grandparents to put her down once and for all.
The Traitorous Princess was finally slain, but not without cost. The cost of her grandparents’ lives. And so in memorial, the remaining Creators renamed the twin Moons after their fallen companions—Alcor and Mizar.
Centuries upon centuries upon centuries more would pass—the world Oneuywa would change in vast yet imperceptible ways, but it would change. The stage would be prepared for the return of the Traitor Princess’s soul to the mortal plane once again.
There would be those who sought to hasten her arrival, and those who would fight against it. That was the “Legend” passed down among those heretics that followed the Princess’ reign of terror without coercion of magic of the most foul. And so, as it neared the thousandth time within the most recent thousand years, did the Moons and the Sun begin to align as predicted, and a small group of fanatics did prepare for the inevitable…
Something went horribly wrong.
As is cliché, a rainy night provides the so-called “perfect alibi.” On the sleepy-town island of Aura’s Dawn, over the slumbering town of Egg Roost, a storm blew in under the light of the half-moons. The victim—a teacher, a father—was already dead, and, under the cover of the alibi-providing weather, his corpse was thrown hastily onto the ground, landing in a werewolf’s shadow, its owner already growling at the mess that their plans had become.
The poor deceased Leprechaun’s body shook violently, as if briefly animated by something.
‘Blast it all. Blast everything that Alcor and Mizar had cursed their “luck“ with. Curse that damned Reaper, and damn the Guardian Trio for putting us in this situation to begin with!‘ The Werewolf thought bitterly. And damn it all for the man to have done what he’d done, getting exactly what he’d deserved in return, but screwing over everything they’d worked for under a table again and again without care for the consequences.
The body jerked again, as if laughing at the situation.
‘No,‘ the Lycan decided, ‘this will not do. This will not do at all.‘
Jaws spreading, the Lycan knelt down and reached their head towards the largest of the wounds—the cut marks that would surely not be missed if there were more flesh missing than what already was.
No, surely not. Nobody would be missing anything if they just, sort of bit down and…