“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 turning skies and below the unreachable Supra lies a hidden borderland of creation—a majestic celestial realm suspended between worlds. Here, the firmament glows with soft, living constellations, and the light itself seems to breathe, folding in rivers and veils across an endless horizon.
This place is not quite heaven and not quite earth, but a threshold where both can be felt: prayers rise from below like mist, and echoes of divine songs descend from above like falling stars. Time loosens its grip in this realm; moments stretch like dawn on the verge of breaking, and every heartbeat feels like the pause between one universe ending and another beginning.
Floating citadels of crystal and stone drift in the upper air, crowned with spires that drink in starlight and reflect it in halos of gold and blue. Pathways made of woven light connect these sanctuaries, forming bridges over abysses of swirling nebulae and sleeping clouds. Guardians, neither fully angel nor mortal, walk these luminous roads, keeping watch over the fragile harmony between what is above and what is below.
In this celestial place, the very air hums with the memory of creation—names unspoken, promises unfinished, destinies yet to be chosen. It is a refuge for wandering souls, a crossroads for messengers, and the silent balcony from which eternity leans down to watch the stories of worlds unfold. Here, in the realm between heaven and Supra, existence itself feels like a whispered secret shared only with those brave enough to find it.
