The Starcatcher Chronicles
Long ago, it is said, an age of ages ago, there were no gods, and there was no magic. Only Man. Even without the guidance of gods, or the luxury of magic, Man is said to have grown, to have innovated, and prospered. This was the Golden Age, where Man stood on its own strengths alone, looked upon its work, and took pride in its majesty, knowing it had given the work life all its own. It is said Man could heal any disease, stop any catastrophe, and slay any foe.
Soon, there were troubles. Man began to fight amongst itself, it is said, and turn its creations on itself. Man took its third, deadliest ability, and stabbed itself in the heart. It is said that this is when the Golden Age ended. With a blast of impossible force, magic was born. Man used the magic, it is said, to escape this earth, leaving only a few of itself behind, inheritors of a wretched scape of despair. These Inheritors kept on, barely clinging to life through a brutality unthinkable, until one day, Those Who Left began to shower the Inheritors with a strange gift, made gods by their ascent. They rained stars upon the earth, for the Inheritors to harvest, and shape into new tools, so that one day they could join Those Who Left in the brass heavens they had constructed for themselves. Those who would be tasked with the harvesting of these fallen stars would become known as Starcatchers.
You are one such Starcatcher.
Beneath the brass sky, in a moment of rare daylight, you press on. It has been some months since you last got work, but not long ago you saw the unmistakable green gleam of a star shooting through the sky, and landing not far off. If you could get some Starmetal, surely your welcome at the nearest town would be secured.
What is your name, Starcatcher?
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Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Your father told you it was his father's name, but you've never met your grandfather, so it's hard to be sure. It would not be the first thing your father was untruthful about.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead