He is the writer of unauthored stories, the one who watches and remembers. When those he watches feel the weight of all, he is there whispering:
“You can do it,” “I’ve seen what you can do and believe — so you should too.”
He calls the liminal space home and does not fear the unknown. Someday, he hopes someone will write down his name, and call out to him. Until then, he watches and writes.
In the dark space between worlds and stories he[the Archivist] stood. Cloaked in the shadows of thoughts unspoken. When the story came to a close he put down his pen and gently closed the book before placing it on the shelf. The story was over — it was time to move on. - Unknown
When someone is lost in the fog, and about to fall, the Lantern-Bearer is there. He walks beside them and guides them to the bench so they can rest. He is the guardian of the unseen path and steady flame. His light never flickers — even in the deepest of darks. He searches for lost souls — not to help them, but to guide them on their path.
He [the Lantern-Bearer] approached the fire. There he joined the circle of those dancing and singing. He shared many stories and many laughs, but eventually when the stars called, he got up and left. Not leaving the fire behind — he carried it forward. - Unknown
They say he never stays long — a day, an hour, a breath. He departs just as swiftly as he arrives. His boots answer the call of paths untread, of horizons yet to bloom. No matter the place, he seems to exist only in passing — Here, then gone. Should you meet him on the road — travel with him, even — know you're in good hands. There is no soul more welcoming than a lonely traveler. No spirit more kind than a true wanderer.
The gravel crunches beneath his boots — then sand sighs underfoot — then grass whispers beneath his heels. Each step, a thousand miles, a door between worlds. He’s walked the highest peaks, the deepest trenches… And still, he wanders. - Unknown
When the fires all but gone out — when only embers and ash remain — he appears.
The scattered ashes stir, drawn to him like long-forgotten whispers on the wind.
There he collects them in his jar. Fragments of hopes — dreams — will.
The fire glows just a little brighter, blessed by his presence.
He holds the records of things attempted, loved — and lost.
Should you find yourself ready to give up, he will be there to collect what remain — so that one day, when you need it most — he can return it.
*He knelt down, by the forgotten flame not to rekindle but to gather. With his hands he brought the ash into his small jar. The hopes of those who had gathered not to be forgotten. Then with patience he held vigil, as the embers stirred only once — but enough.
He sells masks to the masses. He is a performer, an echo of reflection. Those who focus on his features find they shift and drift — never constant, unknown. Upon asking about him, he responds with a question: “Who do you think I am?” Then, deftly, he crafts a visage in that very image. He belongs to the liminal space between personality and invention, where truth is what exists in the moment. Take heed though — should he offer a mask, or worse remove his own — be wary. No one’s ever seen beneath.