The rascal was no older than seven or eight, and he awoke early in the hours of misty light, as young
boys of his age are wont to do. He dressed quickly, tip-toeing outside past his parents' room and snatching a piece of old bread from the hearth to break his fast. And then he was out the door,
scurrying out to join the other young rascals of the village of Delport, ready to cause mischief and
mayhem wherever they went.

And oh, the mischief! Down the beaten paths of the still sleepy village this gang of ruffans ran,
flinging mud and stones at each other like a band of wild savages. Cows were tipped, chickens were
plucked, and pies cooling on windowsills vanished into many little mouths and stomachs, much to the
consternation of the poor bakers whose morning meal had suddenly disappeared.

The village began to waken, roused by the laughter and shouts of boys at play. Housewives prepared the ingredients to replace what was lost, angrily lecturing about the various horrors they planned to inflict on the horrid little beasts. Husbands nodded absently, puffing away at long pipes and remembering the days of their youth, when they themselves were the little monsters. Farmers headed to the fields to tend to the village's hemp crop, and fishermen inspected their nets a final time as they prepared to cast off, sailing off into the Inner Sea to catch their day's bread.

The family of our particular young rascal was quite grateful that the only thing missing from their larder was a piece of stale bread; his mother noted that she would only have to box his ears instead
of severer punishment, to which his father heartily agreed. After all, on a day such as this it was no
good to have hurt feelings and bruised egos. For today was market day, the day when the family loaded their month's produce into a wagon and trudged down the dusty Old Imperial Highway to the city of New Celest, the Resurgence of Light!

Bundles of fragrant hemp, coils of sturdy rope, manufactured from the same plant, jars of poultices and perfumes, all were carefully loaded in boxes and bags and stowed away, tied down with more of the rope that their village was known for. Even the rascal was there to assist, unable to resist the promise of some spending gold and time to run wild in the streets of the city of Light.

Finally the goods were stowed, the house locked, the mule hitched. As the sun began to rise in the sky, the family clambered aboard their humble vehicle, ready for the journey to the city and hopefully to pouches full of gold. All except the rascal of course. As the wagon approached the Cassis Cornuta Gate there he was, tired but determined, trailing behind his parents on his own two feet. You don't away with nicking mother and father's breakfast without some degree of punishment, even if it was market day.

---

The warrior stood impatiently as he waved the family through the gate, their lonely mule pulling their
wagon at an achingly slow pace. A pang of sympathy passed through him as he watched their boy trail in behind; after all, it wasn't too long ago that he was a little rascal himself, and when you're not
far removed from that brotherhood you can't help but feel some solidarity. The harsh squaks of seagulls filled the air, and he sighed, drumming his fingers against the spear.

He was still just a kid really, young and naive, maybe even a little idealistic. He just had to get out
of Stewartsville; a lifetime of rope making didn't exactly match his idea of what 'life' was. So, the
last time a party of Paladins came through the village, prostelyzing about the glory and righteous of
the Light, he didn't hestitate. Months of grueling training followed, long hours spent both on the
practice field and in the lecture halls, tempering both his body and his spirit the Starknight had
said. It wasn't easy, but no one said it would be, and the warrior was alright with that. If it meant a
chance to see the Basin, maybe go on an adventure or two, well he'd be willing to suffer a little for
it, even if memorizing the thousand and one sayings of the Holy Supernals was turning his brain to
porridge. It was better than a lifetime of chafed hands and sore backs from farming hemp, that was for sure.

And then it was over. The Starknight made a fancy speech as they stood outside in full dress on the
practice field that they'd all spent so much time in, talking to the recruits about duty, and service,
and the Light. Then someone thrust a spear into his hands and told him to go stand watch at the Cassis Cornuta Gate, where he idly thought about whether he had been forgotten about or not. He glanced around as his fellow guardsman: the grizzled old veteran across from him whose stories always ended in how good it was they had garrision duty, the exotic, bug-eyed kepheran monks, faces always an unreadable mask, and their sergeant, the dour, humourless cavalier, sitting resplendent on his barded horse and rarely favoring anyone with anything other than a scowl.

The day progressed. The sun rose overhead and then passed. It would've been alright if at least he was paid better, he mused to himself as he finished inspecting another wagon and waved it on through. As it was, he only received a salary of fifteen gold a month, barely enough to have a night of fun. True, he had a place to stay in the barracks and meals at the mess, but he could've made more gold leading stray cows to farmers and even that was more exciting work than what he was doing now. He scowled at the thought, and he found himself secretly hoping that someone, anyone, would lead an assault or raid on the city, if only to alleive his boredom. Perhaps some of the barbarious forestals, savages lurking in the woodlands and cannibalizing their own dead. Or even better, he thought, the age old foe of the Light, the Engine of Transformation, the city of the Taint, fallen Magnagora!

There they would come down the road, a venomous horde of mutated monsters and rotting undead, driven forward by sinister masked viscanti and hulking figures covered head to toe in spiky plate. The
taintspawn would charge, the thunder of their feet filling the air, but he would hold firm, spear
pointed outwards. They would impale themselves on his weapon again and again, and each time he would thrust it clean through them to the heart. The others at the gate would be slowly pushed back the onslaught, but not him! He would be the beacon of light in the darkness, a whirling dervish of
destruction, and when reinforcements finally arrived it only be him that they found, standing before a
wall of bodies, covered in foul ichor and triumphant.

"Oy, guardsman! You done yet, or not!?" He whipped his head to the side in confusion, turning to see
the old veteran glaring at him. A long caravan of wagons were lined up at gate, their occupants
impatiently regarding the gate and muttering at the delay. His face flushed red as he choked out a
reply, hastely moving down the line to inspect the contents of the vehicles. He signed; maybe it was
just his lot in life never to see any adventure. And maybe that was for the best.

---

Annoyance crossed the face of the kinsman as the daydreaming guardsman finally finished inspecting the caravan. Never trust a human to do the job of a merian, he thought, shaking his head. He had even considering leaping into the ocean and swimming around the city to enter from the harbour, where his stalwart kin stood guard instead of whatever recruits happened to be lying around. He had sadly dismissed the thought though; the packages he were carrying, though curiously fireproof, were not water proof and the content would have been ruined.

He swaggered off the wagon as it stopped at a depot on Lower Cassis Cornuta, carefully juggling his
parcels. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, taking a moment to enjoy the mingled smell and salt and surf carried by the ocean breeze. Recently in from Gaudiguch, he had been as far from the sea as one could possibly be while still remain in the Basin of Life. The scorching heat had taxed him to his limits, and more than once he found himself spending entire days within whatever body of water he could find, his scales needing relief from the oppressive temperature.

But oh the people! The parties! The sheer frantic energy and vigour of the so-called City of
Freedom! He loved his home, it was true. He loved New Celest as the bastion of merianess and reborn citadel of the ancient empire, but it simply could not compare to the what he had found in Gaudiguch. As he walked up the Cassis Cornuta, staring at the humdrum activity of a devout and pious population, he felt a pang of dissatisfaction. New Celest was... boring.

A pretty merian woman passed him down the street, and he flashed her a lechorous grin. She turned away, her nose pointed up as a small "hmph!" of disgust escaped her lips. In Gaudiguch, a dracnari woman had made love to him freely and without attachments or regrets, a fact that had wounded him grievously at first, but something he eventually reconciled himself with. That was just the way things were there. No inhibitions. No restrictions. Just passion and respect, like something out of a sermon from a Razielian priest. Compared to the fire and purity of purpose in found there, the Light of Celestia seemed but a dim and feeble reflection.

The kinsman was standing before the Syrinz Plaza Hotel, contemplating whether or not it would be a good idea to deal with his problems in the proper Gaudiguchean fashion, when he felt a tap on the shoulder. A young girl stood behind him, no more than eighteen or nineteen, dressed simply in a set of plain grey robes. Her outstretched hands held a glass globe, pink light twinkling within the transparent sphere. She smiled at him shyly as he regarded the gift, and he found himself gently stroking the glass. He recognized the craftsmanship of course; no merian of New Celest would be so shamed as to not know the work of Jethri the Glassworker.

No, it was the gleaming light within that caught his eye, a warm and soft radiance that filled his heart with a uplifting love as he made contact with its receptacle. A fluttering filled his chest as memories of the past came unbidden into his mind. Prayer at the Deep Blue Cathedral. His first love, a sweet mugwump girl of his youth, whom he had first met as a child. Seeing the Lady Raziela in the flesh, her very smile setting his heart afloat.

"Glory be to the Light..." he murmured, as single tear, formed in his eye. "I had lost my way and now I
have found it. Thank you, friend." He looked up at the girl, tearing his gaze away from the light and
the globe. Her smiled broadened into a grin as she beckoned to him and he followed. She moved swiftly, leading them towards the Pool of Stars itself and then ascending the spiral steps up to the catwalk above the nexus. She halted as they approached a group of supplicants in prayer, kneeling before a symbol hanging from wall resembling a pair of hands overlay atop each other, palms up.

He turned to the girl, the girl who had led him back to the Light with nary a word. He returned her
smile, and her gift, pressing a pouch of gold into her hands as he turned to join the men and women
before the symbol. As he knelt on his knees and began to recite the prayers of the Holy Supernals
long unspoken in his time in a strange and foreign land, a single thought occured to him. No, he would not settle his difficulties in the Gaudiguchean way. He would settle them as a faithful of the Holy
Supernals, of New Celest, of the infinite and graceful Light.

---

The sun rolls below the horizon and Mother Night returns to claim Her domain. But in the city of the New Celest the darkness is challenged, illuminated above by the Star of Celest. Upon the starlit eternity Altaira the Star Deva stands, seperate and yet apart of the Star. She looks down upon the city within her stewardship, her gaze brushing over each and other denizen within.

A Delportean family loads what little remains of their merchandise onto their wagon exhausted from the low day and ready to return home. A boy sleeps in the back, his head resting against a pile of empty sacks and a cat curled inexplicably up against his body.

A youth wearing the tabard of the Paladins and the Light speaks with his companion at the Syrinx Plaza Hotel, sipping on ale as he listens to his friend tell wild stories of campaigns across the breadth and width of the planes.

And a merian prays, his heart and mind at peace once more. Invisible fingers of energy reach out to brush the man, his prayers and hopes and dreams the energy that sustains the Star.

The Deva feels a tugging at her chest, and far in the distance, above the ancestral home of the empire a glimmer of light can be seen. With a smile she vanishes, a duty of her own to be discharged.

The Star of Celest remains, a golden globe of light shielding its home, and all who dwell within.