The Mythmaker's Notebook

Jorin was adrift. His small vessel, Das Luos, had slipped off course when an asteroid storm, violent and unexpected, tore through the void. The storm was a maelstrom of cosmic debris, each rock a potential death sentence for his fragile ship. One particularly large asteroid struck with a force that felt like the universe itself was aiming for him, shredding his navigational array in an instant. Now, he floated in the silence of space, a castaway in the abyss, the only sound the hum of life support systems and his own shallow breaths.

He still had power. He could still control and maneuver the spacecraft, but with limited fuel and no guidance system, he hesitated to choose a heading and deplete his resources. Incorrectly choosing a direction could easily exhaust his fuel and leave him to die in space. His fear paralyzed him, so he simply allowed the vessel to drift in the blackness of space.

Days had passed—or perhaps weeks; time was meaningless when the stars all looked like the same unchanging beacons on an endless night. It could have been mere hours. Das Luos, once his pride and sanctuary, had become a coffin hurtling aimlessly. Jorin sat in the pilot’s chair, the control panel before him dark, save for the faint glow of the emergency lights. He stared out of the front window, where the stars offered no comfort. Their light was years away, and they were indifferent to his plight.

Supplies were already dwindling, adding to his anxiety. The food storage pantry was nearly empty, and he used water only when necessary. The air recyclers worked overtime, their efficiency dropping with each passing hour, filling the cabin with a stale, metallic scent. Jorin’s ration bars, once a distasteful necessity, had become his only sustenance. With each bite, he remembered how close he was to the end.

Hope was a fickle, distant thing, as faint as the stars outside. He had tried every trick he knew to send out a distress signal, but without the navigation system, he was blind and mute in the vastness of space. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of the ship’s hull or the soft, constant hum of the life support systems. For now, he was alive.

Jorin’s mind drifted, not through the stars but back to Veloria, to the nights where the sky danced with the colors of auroras, a spectacle that made even the coldest heart feel warmth. He remembered the simple comforts of those nights — the soft glow of bioluminescent plants, the hum of life all around, and the stories shared by the communal fires. In Veloria, he’d felt like a whisper in a storm, insignificant amidst the tales of heroes and survivors.

Now, those memories felt like a distant dream, a stark contrast to the cold metal of his ship, the Das Luos, hurtling aimlessly through the void. He recalled the old tales and legends of those who confronted death and survived, or those who died but whose names were immortalized among the stars. There was the story of Miala, who navigated her ship through a black hole’s event horizon, only to emerge in another galaxy; or Rhan, who fought off raiders with nothing but his wits and a broken piece of hull. These were stories of defiance, of the human spirit’s refusal to be extinguished by the darkness.

In this moment, adrift in the silence of space, he felt the weight of his own insignificance, yet also the potential for legacy. Each breath he took was a story in itself — a tale of survival against all odds, of a man alone with nothing but his thoughts and the vast, indifferent universe.

He glanced at the ship’s chronometer, its incessant ticking like some dark, cosmic punchline in this endless, star-flecked void. Sleep came in ragged bursts, haunted by visions of home, the familiar landscapes of Veloria, or twisted into nightmares where death waited with the patience of the universe itself.

In those rare moments of lucidity, Jorin wrestled with his fate, the sheer scale of space pressing down on him like the weight of a thousand worlds. Here he was, a single man adrift in an ocean of stars, the irony of his solitude biting deep. Surrounded by the infinite, by possibilities that stretched further than the mind could grasp, he was as alone as any soul could be.

Trying to stay positive and not drown in the anxiety, a stubborn spark of survival flickered within him. Jorin knew the odds were against him, but he also knew the universe had a way of surprising even the most lost. He rummaged through the ship, looking for anything that could be repurposed or used in a last-ditch effort to signal or navigate.

He found an old, forgotten toolkit beneath a seat. He chuckled to himself, remembering when he had believed maintenance would be his greatest concern. He sat down at the control panel where the navigation controls were located. He surveyed the area, trying to figure out what had gone wrong and how he could fix it.

He reached for a lever to adjust the backlight on the buttons when he spotted a bright, blue light. It wasn’t the cold, distant twinkle of a star; this was different, pulsing like a beacon in the black void. His heart skipped a beat.

He scrambled to the control panel, pulling up what he could of the ship’s remaining functional equipment. The light was steady, not a reflection or a dying star. He needed to know how far away it was, if it was even within reach with his limited fuel.

“Okay, Jorin, think,” he muttered to himself. “First, the parallax method. If I can measure that light’s shift against the background stars…”

He moved the ship slightly, just enough to note the parallax. The light shifted, but barely. “Not close then,” he surmised. “Time for some math.”

He knew the distance between his two observations was roughly 50 meters, the length of Das Luos. He measured the angle of shift with a makeshift sextant he’d fashioned from a broken piece of equipment and a laser pointer. The angle was tiny, almost imperceptible.

“Alright, basic trigonometry,” he said, his voice echoing in the empty cabin. He realized he could use the small angle approximation because the angle was so minuscule. He calculated that the light was about fourteen thousand kilometers away.

“Fourteen thousand kilometers,” Jorin whispered. His fuel reserves would barely get him there.

But the light was there, a beacon in the dark, and with it came a sliver of hope. Maybe it wasn’t rescue, perhaps it was something else, something he couldn’t yet fathom. But it was a point in the void, something to aim towards, a new variable in the equation of his survival.

Jorin sat back, the calculation done, but his mind raced with possibilities. In the vastness of space, where even light-years felt like next-door neighbors, fourteen thousand kilometers was a whisper, a chance. He would need to be clever, to conserve, to hope, but for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he had a direction, a purpose. The blue light was his new north star, guiding him through the unknown.

---

After what felt like an eternity of meticulous fuel conservation and navigating by the stars, Jorin finally approached the source of the blue light. As Das Luos drew closer, the light resolved into something unlike anything he’d seen in his travels. Floating in the void was a structure that defied his expectations, a building made entirely of glass, its surfaces shimmering with an ethereal blue light.

The building was vast, its architecture more akin to a piece of art than a functional space. The building’s walls, constructed of opaque stained-glass, formed a cosmic mosaic, each pane reflecting and refracting the blue light in mesmerizing patterns. The light didn’t just illuminate; it seemed to dance across the surface, creating an illusion of movement, of life within the glass.

From afar, it looked like a jewel hung in the black velvet of space, its blue glow a contrast to the cold, white light of distant stars. As he neared, the building’s size became apparent; it was easily the size of a small city, yet it floated with the grace of a feather, unaffected by the harshness of the void.

Jorin felt the weight of his journey in his bones as he maneuvered his ship towards what he hoped was a docking bay. There were no visible ports, no signs of life or technology, just the glass, until, miraculously, the structure seemed to acknowledge his approach. Sections of the stained-glass parted like water before a ship’s prow, revealing an entry point that seemed to have been waiting for him all along.

With practiced hands, now trembling slightly with anticipation, Jorin aligned Das Luos with the port. The ship responded to the docking sequence. Clamps engaged, a solid, reassuring sound in the vast silence, locking Das Luos to this enigma of glass and light.

The transition from the void to this silent, glass sanctuary was like stepping from one world into another. As the air seal formed, Jorin felt a surge of both awe and dread. What was this place, this city of glass in the heart of nowhere? Who had the power or the madness to craft such a thing? More importantly, was this his salvation or merely another layer of the mystery that had been his life since leaving Veloria? With a breath that was more like a prayer, Jorin prepared to exit Das Luos.

Jorin stepped out of Das Luos into the glass citadel, the air surprisingly warm and filled with the scent of something sweet and baked. Before him stretched a staircase, each step a different hue of the rainbow leading up into the heart of the structure. The colors were vibrant, alive under the blue glow, almost as if they were made of light itself.

As he ascended, the glass beneath his feet seemed to shift with his weight, as though he were walking on water. Each step was an experience, the colors changing, blending into one another, creating a kaleidoscope of light around him. The staircase spiraled up, through the body of the building, until it deposited him in what could only be described as the heart of this glass city.

What lay before him was not just a room but a vast expanse that stretched into the distance, an infinite library. Shelves of books, data crystals, and holographic displays filled the space, reaching up into the shadows where the blue light couldn’t quite touch. The air hummed with the quiet reverence of knowledge, a silent choir of stories waiting to be told.

Jorin walked, his steps echoing in the vastness, until he reached what appeared to be a reception area, but it was far from conventional. It was a cozy coffee shop and bakery, the smell of fresh coffee and baked goods a stark contrast to the sterile environment of his ship.

Behind the counter stood a humanoid, its features crafted with such precision that it was almost indistinguishable from a human – if not for the subtle glow in its eyes, reminiscent of the building’s light.

Jorin approached the counter. “Where am I?” It came out broken, his vocal cords not wanting to work properly.

“Welcome, traveler,” the humanoid said, its voice smooth, inviting. “I am Archivus, the keeper of this place. You’ve arrived at a place that has owned many names over the centuries. It has been called The Santuary of Stories, The Celestial Codex, The Nexus of Knowledge… It is the largest repository of stories, histories, and secrets in the known universe. Currently, I call it The Recollective.”

Jorin, still awestruck, found his voice. “This… this is all a library?”

Archivus nodded, a human-like gesture that seemed out of place yet comforting. “Every piece of information, every tale of every species, preserved here. We offer knowledge to those who seek it, but in return, we ask for a price.”

“A price?” Jorin echoed, his curiosity piqued despite the exhaustion.

“A story from your life,” Archivus explained, pulling a cup of coffee from a machine that hummed with efficiency. “Every visitor must contribute to our collection. It’s the currency here. What you’ve lived, what you’ve seen, adds to the tapestry of the cosmos. Additionally, Those who share their stories with The Recollective are not left unchanged or unaided. We provide what is needed for their journey to continue.”

Jorin looked around, the enormity of what he’d stumbled upon beginning to sink in. “And if I have no story?”

Archivus smiled, a gesture so human it was eerie. “Everyone has a story, Jorin. Even silence speaks volumes in this place. Now, tell me, what would you like to drink? Every tale begins with a sip, after all.”

Jorin accepted the steaming cup of coffee, the warmth of it seeping into his cold hands. He chose a pastry, something with swirls of color that mirrored the staircase he’d ascended, its sweet aroma a promise of comfort.

“I’m not sure I have any stories worth telling,” Jorin admitted, taking a cautious sip of the coffee, its rich flavor a revelation after the recycled ship’s brew. “My life has been… unremarkable. I’ve been alone, drifting, just trying to survive.”

Archivus observed him with an intensity that seemed to look beyond his words. “Unremarkable does not mean unimportant, Jorin. Even the quietest life is a narrative, a thread in the tapestry of existence.”

Jorin shook his head, feeling the weight of his solitude. “I’ve seen the stars, sure, but not in a way that anyone would care to hear about. No heroics, no grand discoveries.”

The humanoid’s eyes glowed slightly brighter, a sign of contemplation or perhaps decision. “Perhaps, then, you need inspiration. Come, let me show you something.”

Archivus led Jorin through shelves that seemed to part for them, the library adjusting to their path. They arrived at a small, secluded section where the light was softer, almost golden, bathing the area in a glow that felt like home.

“Here,” Archivus said, gesturing to the shelves. “This is a collection of tales from those who, like you, felt their lives were unremarkable. See if you find something that resonates with you, that might inspire your own story.”

Jorin looked around at the shelves filled with books. He saw books, some ancient, others modern, all bound in materials that seemed to come from different worlds. There were also data crystals and holographic devices, each one a portal to someone else’s experience.

Jorin’s hand reached out, almost of its own accord, to a book that seemed to call to him. Its cover was of simple, worn leather, aged to a soft brown that spoke of countless hands before his. The title was a mystery, written in a script so foreign, so ancient, that it might as well have been the language of stars themselves, illegible and enigmatic. As he opened it, the book did not speak in the conventional sense; instead, it whispered directly into his mind, bypassing the need for eyes to see words.

The story depicted a farmer, a man whose days were marked by the rise and fall of suns over fields of gold and green. It was a narrative of beauty in simplicity, of finding joy in the rhythm of seasons, each one bringing its own gifts and challenges. The farmer’s life was a tapestry of small moments – the first bloom of spring, the harvest under fall’s watchful eye, the communal gatherings by firelight where stories and laughter were the currency. It was a life of quiet joy, a celebration of community and the earth’s endless cycle of renewal.

Placing the book back on the shelf, something else caught his eye. It was a small, intricately carved artifact that seemed to hum with a subtle energy. It was not a book but a relic from a species long gone, designed to share memories. When Jorin touched it, he was transported to the life of a creature from a desert world, where the sun was a relentless god and water was life’s greatest treasure.

Through this artifact, he experienced the arid beauty of endless dunes, the harsh whispers of sandstorms, and the silent, profound nights under a sky so vast it dwarfed all worries. This being lived a life of survival, each day a testament to endurance, its existence a series of quiet victories against the desert’s unyielding nature. It found beauty in scarcity, in the rare bloom of a desert flower, in the perfect stillness of a moonlit night where the stars were close enough to touch. It was a story of surviving not just the physical desert but the desert within, finding peace and purpose in solitude, in the art of living with the bare minimum, where every drop of water, every grain of sand, told its own tale.

Jorin sat down, his coffee and pastry forgotten for a moment, lost in the narratives of others. Each story spoke to him in its way, showing him that every life, no matter how mundane, was a piece of the universe’s story.

Archivus watched, a silent guardian of this moment of revelation. “Sometimes,” it said, “we need to see through the eyes of others to understand our own tale. You might find, Jorin, that your story is more than you’ve given it credit for.”

With these words, Jorin felt a spark, not of inspiration, but of realization. Perhaps his story wasn’t about grand adventures but about the resilience of the human spirit, the beauty of the mundane, and the quiet acts of survival against the vastness of space.

Jorin sat among the echoes of countless lives, the stories of others resonating within him. He felt different, the weight of his own tale now seeming more tangible, more significant. He turned back to Archivus, who had been patiently waiting, a silent observer to his journey through the narratives of others.

“I think… I have a story I can share,” Jorin said, his voice steady but filled with a newfound reverence for his own life.

Archivus’s eyes glowed with what might have been satisfaction or perhaps anticipation. “Very well. Let us begin the sharing process.” It led Jorin to a small, sacred space within the library, a place where the light was gentle, almost reverent. There was a simple pedestal in the center of the room.

“You’ll need to connect with your story,” Archivus explained, the voice soft, guiding. “Do you have something personal, an item that holds meaning?”

Jorin nodded, his gaze falling to his left wrist where a simple bracelet rested, a relic from his past. He unclasped it, revealing the black string and the dark yellow stone, a piece of home he’d carried through the stars.

“This,” Jorin said, holding up the bracelet. “It’s from my mother.”

Archivus nodded in understanding. “Good. Take a seat. Hold the stone, think of your story, and let the memories flow. The stone will capture your tale, preserving it for eternity.”

Jorin took a deep breath, the stone cool and smooth in his palm. He closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him. As he focused, he could feel the temperature of the stone rising. It was as if the stone was drinking in his memories, his story becoming part of its essence.

When Jorin opened his eyes, the heat was subsiding and a low glow had overtaken the stone. It felt different, as if it held more weight than before.

“It’s done,” Archivus said, his voice a whisper of acknowledgment. “Your story is now part of the library. Your legacy set in stone.”

Jorin handed the bracelet to Archivus. “Please keep it safe.”

Archivus took the stone with the respect one gives to sacred artifacts, placing it gently into a slot on the pedestal. “It will be cherished,” the humanoid promised. “Now, you have access to all we hold. What knowledge do you seek?”

Jorin felt lighter, his story no longer just his but part of something eternal. He was ready to dive into the knowledge this place offered, to learn, to grow, with his story now echoing through the halls of the library, a whisper among the stars.

With his story now part of the Celestial Codex, Jorin felt an unprecedented sense of belonging, not just to Veloria but to the vast tapestry of the universe. The act of sharing had not only granted him access to the library’s endless knowledge but had also reshaped his understanding of his own life’s value.

He roamed the library, each step taking him through tales of triumph, tragedy, and the mundane beauty of existence. He learned of technologies long lost, philosophies that illuminated his understanding of life, and the simple, profound joys of other beings. But more than the knowledge, he absorbed the essence of storytelling – how each narrative, no matter how small, added to the collective memory of the cosmos.

The sacrifice of his story, a piece of his soul left behind, felt not like a loss but like an expansion. His legacy was now here, in this library beyond the stars, a beacon for future travelers who might feel as lost as he once did. His tale would inspire, challenge, or simply comfort others, proving that even the quietest life could echo through eternity.

As he prepared to leave, Archivus walked him back to Das Luos. “Remember, Jorin, your story is now immortal. You’ve contributed to the legacy of all sentient beings. You are no longer just Jorin but part of the narrative that defines us all.”

Jorin paused at the airlock, looking back at the glass structure, then addressing the humanoid one last time. “I came here when I was most lost,” he said, “and I found something far more valuable than I could have imagined. I found that every life, every moment, has its place in the universe’s story.”

“Indeed. One last thing, Jorin. Thank you so much for visiting today and thank you for sharing your story with The Recollective. As you’ve enriched our collection, we’ve taken the liberty to ensure your journey continues. Your ship is now fully operational and fueled.”

“Thank you!” Jorin stepped aboard the Das Luos, taking his place in the captain’s chair. He set his course, not aimlessly this time, but with a destination in mind, inspired by the stories he’d encountered. He would document his travels, share his experiences, and perhaps one day lead others to this place, where they too could find their story’s worth.

As Das Luos detached, the Celestial Codex dimmed slightly, a silent farewell. Jorin knew he wasn’t just leaving; he was taking a piece of the library with him, its stories woven into his very being. His journey, once one of solitude, was now a pilgrimage of sharing, of adding to the endless saga of the stars.

So, Jorin ventured back into the void, his legacy secured, his story one among the infinite, a testament to the power of sacrifice, the immortality of storytelling, and the enduring legacy of every life lived under the vast, indifferent sky.