“Vitalis: A Lament for the Lost”
In the shadowed age of stone citadels and burning torches, where kings reigned beneath banners of faith and royal priests spoke with tongues of heaven, there dwelt the Guardians — celestial sentinels bound to protect mankind from its own abyss.
Among them shone Vitalis — the Angel of the Eternal Dawn. His wings gleamed like molten starlight, and his voice trembled with the harmony that first shaped creation. He stood watch when men still remembered the sacred breath that gave them life — when quests were holy, and crowns were heavy with duty, not desire.
But the hearts of men changed. The age of kings fell to the age of merchants. Gold became their scripture; desire, their creed. Temples turned to markets, and the sacred flame of virtue dimmed. Without reverence, the earth groaned — forests decayed, beasts turned mad, skies wept crimson rain. Humanity wandered in a storm of its own making — wild, godless, unmoored from the image of light.
Beyond the mortal veil, where eternity turns like unseen gears, the Four Ancient Wheels of Power began to move — celestial mechanisms older than suns. Their rims burned in the Golden Blue Spectrum, the color of divine balance — mercy and judgment intertwined.
From their motion came a thunderous decree:
“The harmony is breaking. Summon the Guardian of Mankind.”
And so, across the firmament, a cry echoed — ancient, vast, and filled with sorrow.
The earth shuddered as a figure descended from the high abyss of light — wings unfurled, eyes radiant with compassion and retribution alike.
Once more, Vitalis, the ancient guardian, rose above the ruins of man’s rebellion. His presence was not wrath, but remembrance — the call to restore what had been lost: kindness, love, and the purity of the divine image within.
For when mortal hands forget how to heal, only the hands of the eternal can lead them back to the light
Supra
Above the last blue breath of heaven, where even angels turn their gaze in awe, there burns a solitary wonder: Qualstar, the supernal spectrum of Supra. It does not merely shine—it hymns, a silent chorus of colors that folds through the firmament like a living prayer.
Qualstar’s heart is a shifting rainbow of divinity, a halo of impossible hues that ripple like wings unfurling across eternity. When it flares in crimson-gold, storms bow and fall silent; when it softens into silver-blue, the sorrows of worlds below loosen their grip, and forgotten hopes rise like dawn over the soul. Each color is a word in a language older than time, a message written in radiance to all who dare to look up.
Around this sacred star bloom four companions, like petals on an eternal flower: one burning with the fire of first light, one steeped in the hush of twilight, one veiled in shimmering mystery, one pure and white as an untouched hymn. They circle Qualstar in slow, celestial grace, weaving halos and rings that crown Supra with a diadem of living light. Their orbits are like prayers in motion, tracing psalms across the skin of the sky.
From its throne atop Supra, beyond cloud and constellation, Qualstar’s presence pours down like a gentle, endless anointing. Comets bend their journey in silent reverence, constellations lean aside to make room for its glory, and the veil between realms grows thin wherever its spectrum falls. To the fearful, it is a distant miracle; to the faithful, a guiding beacon; to the weary, a quiet promise that above all darkness, there waits a light so holy and so vast it can rewrite the heavens—and teach even the stars how to sing again.
