Into this world of sensory poetry, the first inhabitants were born.
They were not made of flesh and bone, but of perception and response. They were living instruments, designed to experience the artful world the Myth-Makers had created. They had no fixed form, but shifted and changed in response to the world around them.
When they perceived the secret color, they became living canvases, their forms swirling with the hues of their own unique memories and dreams. When they felt the empathetic sound, they resonated with it, their bodies becoming harmonies in the world’s silent song. When they touched the story-stone, they became living libraries, their very essence imbued with the histories they held.
They did not speak in words, for language was too clumsy a tool for the world they inhabited. They communicated in shared feelings, in resonant harmonies, in the blending of their shifting, secret colors. They did not build cities or wage wars, for their world was not one of scarcity or conflict. Their purpose was not to conquer, but to experience. Not to own, but to appreciate.
They were the first audience. The first appreciators of the art. And in their shared experience of the world’s beauty, they found a new kind of community. A community based not on survival, but on wonder. A society whose only law was to pay attention, and whose only currency was a shared sense of awe.