“Many centuries ago there was a kingdom within the highest lands of the universe, home of the celestials, who had power beyond imagination. Many thrived with joy and other cared for the beings they created and one celestial in particular whom loved all beings and life yet wanted something of her own, she spent days, weeks, months, years to make this project perfect until using some of her blood to make it alive, a toon breathe for the first time, this brought the celestial hope and created more, made of her power and blood to create a society she called ‘Toons” and she loved them wholeheartedly.
Creating land for them, helping to make and invent things for their own, after so long she realized her magic was draining she used as much as she can spare to create a machine for the toons and it’d provide them anything they desired, the toons used this gift wisely and always thanked the celestial whenever they can and whenever she was near until she wasn’t. No-one knows where she went and it was like she never existed… Without a celestial watching over, everything went downhill pretty fast, toons starting fighting over the machine, others started to become greedy with their territories and it struck.. The first murdered toon that was killed by the hands of a demon toon. It was set that the demon had to be, what they called, executed. Afterwards, Others starting taking things into their own hands of violence, fighting over the machine and territory, a war has begun, for years it went on, violence, gunfire, gases, death and it was then the machine had released a toxic substance of splotchy, clotted ink with the air around it being fatal, leading to a deadly disease among the toons. Few of the smarter beings gathered together and began to tear the machine apart and scatter the pieces through the lands of the isles.
What’s done is done, the inky substance and the fatal air already infected the lands of ink and now the toons are left to hope for and live in the world without the machine, without a celestial…
Time moves on so does the world, yet no cure for the illness and the machine is now considered a fable, a myth, with the centuries and generations moving on, the fable machine rots as for substance pour out yet no cure in mind, more are lost and succumbed and the rest are left behind, forced to move on, losing all hope for no cure are in hindsight and for all they know, the machine and the celestial is a fable storytelling.”
Now this is where our story begins.
