Aeoryi

Something I've always wanted to write is voices of feelings. Due to no worldbuilding iyt's always been hard. 

So I am here to write the first chapter of this

Ice was cold to me. That shouldn't mean anything, right? But actually, it does. If ice is cold, that means you can't create it out of Winter, which means you can't keep this iosghar-forsakken desert cold.

Metal is cold as well. but it is a different type of cold. The cold is less of a temperature and more of a feeling that you've knocked on the same door 49 times and no one answered. So that means I can't create the malitzal-cursed technology that exploits the very universe itself.

Guess what else is cold? Air! Cold, unforgiving air wanted nothing with me. That meant I couldn't manipulate Tempest at all. That wouldn't mean much; but it would be at least some success in my failure-ridden life.

Of course, it wouldn't be complete if the festival of chosing didn't have another cold response. This one was less cold, and more just... not there. It was spacetime, or the mutable force we call Hedra, the most powerful, most complex tool anyone could have. A Hedra user could do anything from teleport to blow themselves up instantly. It was far more powerful and rarer than any other ability, and was extremely mysterious to the public. The guilds of Hedra users were the crafty bunch.

Most people who came up with me, and got nothing in return. There was a sqeal of delight occasionally from people who had discovered that they could create temporary ice or affect a small amount of wind. It was both pathetic and envious. 

I could've gotten a hedra ability, or a Winter ability, gone off, joined a guild of other ability users, and saved my family. I could've gotten Metaluna ability and made new metals, or had them move to my will. I could've had anything...

But I had nothing. Again. 

It was like using an old, dulled axe; it was expected to fail, and didn't stand a chance against its successful other weapon-folks. Now, if that axe was ineffective, I would be like a stick used for battle. It was only used for failure. At least the ol' greataxe got to bring back the good old days, but I only brought back jokes. This time I would be returning empty-handed. 

My parents wouldn't be mad; they knew they couldn't change fate. Not even the mighty Venchu could do it. If a god couldn't do it, then why try as a fool living in little more than a battered, wind eaten tent? 

So when I stepped down from the silvery platform, I immediately turned and left, following the purple glow of the metalic road. I had no regards for the ceremony, it only celebrated the newly forged swords, not the old greataxes. And there was a whole lot more greataxes than swords in this  ceremony. Under 20 individuals were celebrated in the fest of chosing. Over  5 000 attended. The ones in the spotlight would then chose a guild and live a prestegious life. Everyone else who recieved the cold response from the mutable forces would be forgotten. 

So essentially, after this ceremony my life will be pointless. I can already see myself in the same clothing I've worn for several days, making money off of selling whatever was left, praying to the ancients above that I would be able to eat. That was my life's future. 

Until something spoke to me.