Once upon a time, on a nameless planet of an unknown star system of a nameless world, there appeared an eternally confused girl, and she awoke for a third time, devoid of all memories and sensible mental capabilities. Sadly, but not for her, she forgot her days of being a cosmic tyrant, ending in a standoff with entities called The Higher with the help of a particular hero of yester times, Wolfheze, a descendant of a kind from ancient times: a Laniakean, or Man in other words.
And on this planet, she appeared out of nothingness; time was skipped sufficiently to where this universe is stable enough to house life, and she just popped – out of the air! She fell on a patch of soft and moist grass, and when she gained consciousness, it was as if she never used her eyes to see before or breathe air through her lungs and feel matter triggering her senses.
And thus, for the third time, Arnitikós, The Last Forson, awakens from a slumber. The first was at birth – if you can call it a slumber – the second awakening was within the confines of The Tower of Jon, and the third is here, now, in Sciriala, a universe naturally born from the ashes of the previous one. Similarly to how the existence of the previous world, The Annulus, was spared in the form of a reborn world since it was an insult to the beauty of chaos and creation, Arnitikós, too, was spared, and if the horror of The Annulus was stripped away from this new world, so was Arnitikós's. From the constant head noise of the millennia, the never-ceasing lump in the throat, the anger and all the negativity within her, from Consistorium to Laniakea to The Annulus, is now gone. She is now but a blank canvas similar to her early childhood before Eleven-Eighty-Seven, yet in this world and timeline, her state of being and mind is as light as the warm and soft breeze of autumn. A girl easily persuaded by the provocative dance of fireflies, one who would chew on a raw fish to ease her hunger within the drench of the river and the clusters of moss clumped to her hair, which is now in a state of suspended alopecia; her hair is as long as it always has been, black, dim, spiky and reaching to the heels, yet there are bald spots on her head. It's as if said plucked negativity also affected her hair. And an eye that is an ocean of black, whereas the other one retained its original crimson.
It was on a very insignificant planet in a star system of similar insignificance. Livable for an organism like Arnitikós and the like. With no remembrance of anything that had happened in her cacophonous past life, she wakes up inconsistently every day, once at dawn, once at noon, and the worst, after starset! She fears the dark and has to endure the absence of light until the next stardawn. She would be a nuisance to a firefly colony, 'Oh, it's her again! Guys, we should put an end to this. How about we relocate to another tree?' Said one of the firefly workers, seeing the fretted Arnitikós seeking shelter within their lime light.
'Are you daft? The nearest tree is days of flight away – oh, and the queen wouldn't allow it, not after the battle with the Bees of the Hill.' Replied his coworker.
'Oh, you two. . .' interrupted a female worker, 'She is harmless – have you seen the look on her face the first time she infiltrated the colony? I pity her, honestly.'
And for months, whenever her clumsy sleep dictated her being awake at starset, she would unapologetically nag the fireflies, taking shelter within their faint light, inside the hollowed bark of a great tree.
There was no apparent sign of intelligent life on this planet, or as it appeared so. The fireflies were merely communicating with each other, but perhaps they could convey what they thought and felt; so far, the only thing they've done to fend off the silly girl is gather around her face and peck her. She interpreted it as a playful gesture, making her joyous.
Once, she felt immensely lonely, so she grabbed a stick and ran it on an empty, flat field. The result was a giant circle drawn in the form of scuffed grass.
She then drew more circles inside the previous one and drew more within them.
The significance of the circular shape was negligible in her mind; she only felt a sense of completion and relief when she drew circles on the grassy lands. For weeks, she covered most of the hill she resided on with circular indents, holes, pits, and disfigurations that resembled anything close to a circle. She was happy, and she was proud.