The Sea, Sky, and Stories of Prismer

    In the night, the world seems to play by different rules. Especially in Prismer, where you can almost watch the magic twirl and twist through the air, weaving through avenues of their own creation before plunging into the depths of the ocean. Though the sun has long dipped below the horizon, the air still prickles with energy that you can’t help but get lost in, and the ringing voices of happy people roll against the waves as they crash back into the shore. Even in the gray-scale world I live in now, few things are more beautiful. 

    I’ve walked many beautiful places in this world, hopped across stones in a trickling river that begged to be swam in, further weathered trails that had been worn by centuries of curious people looking to see what lies at the end of the forest. They’re places to be talked about in fairytales and folklore, but I keep finding myself coming back to these moonlit beaches whenever I close my eyes.

The difference, I think, is the sky. The land I came from always had something covering the sky, whether it be the towering trees, billowing clouds, or the flickering light of a raging campfire. The night sky I knew was merely a blanket lulling those dwelling below it to sleep. Here, the sky is a canvas, painted with strokes of starlight that tell stories, hundreds that the eye can see, and thousands more just out of range. Some say they tell of space people running across highways of nebulae, waging their own wars and living their own lives before crashing into our ground to become lost gods. Others say when people die their life stories get woven into the threads of constellations, mapping out a tapestry of our planet just above our heads. I like to think both are true, and if it is, our planet’s history is breathtaking to watch unfold.

    My companions are not those to humor me about these things. Aryn will crinkle her nose and call me a hippie, rustling my hair and telling me to stick my head out from above the clouds. I suppose it’s because she’s lived under this sky for so long, what is my breathtaking work of natural art is the blanket that brings her to a long night’s rest. I could never see why, though I guess she could say the same about the twisting trails of my land. It’s never bothered me much, mainly because the beauty of these islands reflects upon them as well.

Tamari, especially, crackles and fizzes with the magic that lights the air aflame with life. Eyes that glow like galaxies and a voice that roars like the midnight surf, it’s captivating. They tell me that they’re no one important, just an idiot who lives for a laugh, but I always beg to disagree. Magic twirls around them and refuses to leave, caught up in their independent rhythm just as I have. It’s a vivacious show of passion and willpower that is hard to take my eyes away from. At least, until they ask me to stop. 

It's a shame, really, that I seem to be alone in seeing all this. Maria laughed at me when I said I was shoving off to Prismer, teasing that I was heading to the country of color when I had no eyes to see them with. In some respects she was right, all these buildings that I was told that I had to see were just muddy blocks of worn out stone to me, but that’s not why I’m here in the end. The life of a shaman is the life of seeing the magic in people, bringing it out in ways that makes them happier. In that respect, I don’t think I could’ve chosen a better place. A nation where its beauty is seen as normalcy to a populace so lost in their own world, I think I should be the one laughing at her. 

Idell is wonderful and it will always be my home, but as I trace aimlessly in the sand, letting the wind flow through my hair and take my magic up beyond the stars, I don’t think Prismer is a place I’ll ever want to leave.