He eyes the edge of the world, smiling wide. Barely moving he speaks, in a low voice, a slow voice, dragging essences of shadow across new beginnings. "... of their stories, their starmaps..? Smoke and mirrors, you poor soul, the windows into lying teeth. Let me tell you how it really happened...

"There are several facets to this story, and many more voices through which it is told. As the world turns, the light shifts, and reflections through glass make the it all in their image.

"There are the gods, whose pathways cross only in moments with the World, because they are banished or converging in some point in history, only to depart. But their magic, their eminence lingers, in the land, and in the dreams of the space surrounding sleep. They watched the War, with no visible influence. Passing, sometimes into other lives, more dimensions than one mind could ever make.

"There are the witches, timeless and torn between the realms of nowhere and everywhere, of ordinary and occult. They have been caught by the War and released themselves or fled its grasp from the start. Magic-wielding, mysterious- some have settled beyond the boundaries of society--the wilderness, the unknown--and others finding their refuge still within. Feared, for their power and for their legacy. Hated, for their degrees of difference.

"There are the forsaken, who were forced into or forced to suffer from the War. Whose lives were wrecked, or remade, or repurposed. Those who knew not beginning but clung to existence. They walk among the mortal masses with missions of their own, carrying always the lessons from their history, pieces of broken memories.

"My part in this? That's hard to say. What do you think, and what do you want to know?" He hints at a laugh, or a sob, it's hard to tell. The stars on his face twinkle, a map of a sky no one has ever seen before.