Long, long ago, a man named Spester lived a quiet life in a quiet village in a quiet world. The village was fruitful, for each and every man, woman, and even child, knew his or her place in the flow of things. There was Eira the weaver, Anqa the smith, Sola the guard, Stratos the leader, and a host of others who made life safe and comfortable. Everyone was specialized. Everyone was efficient.

But something in Spester set him aside from the other villagers. His job was to hunt game that would go to sustain the many stomachs of the village. Indeed, Spester was specialized. Indeed, he was efficient. But he quietly denied his place in the village. Many a time he would find himself in the plains at night, not hunting, but looking to the stars sailing over the faraway mountains. He would gaze and wish he was standing atop those mountains, so close to the world’s ceiling that he could run his hand through the fabric of the heavens.

Wish as he might, Spester knew he would never stand atop the mountains, knew he would never touch the heavens, so a wish was the closest he would ever come, so a wish was all he ever made. And he would sigh with the moon and he would hunt once more.

Life continued quietly and pleasantly as ever, until one day news of a horrible beast arrived in the village. Word had it that the beast sent forth blood-curdling roars from atop the mountains, roars that terrorized villages for miles around. The villagers made little talk of it, however. They knew that having something like such news on their minds would only distract them from their work. And so they returned to their lives.

But there was an exception to this return to form. Near noon, Spester went out to the plains to hunt as usual, but his bow hung loosely at his side, and his eyes stared not at the ground, but once more at the mountains. The news had magnified his wish tenfold. His wish turned into a hope, and with this hope he began to dream under the midday sun. He dreamed of marching to the mountains, of slaying whatever sort of chimaera roared from the peak, of being a hero to villagers for miles around. He dreamed of running away from his quiet life in his quiet village, of living forever beside the stars and the gods themselves.

He dreamed in the daylight, aware of two worlds, when one of those worlds retook his full vigilance. A fearsome roar heralded from the faraway mountains. The sun gazed at Spester expectantly, and his dream merged its reality with the present. He walked. He ran. The beast roared.

This went on for at least two days, but the time passed by the running hunter unnoticed. Finally he found himself atop the mountain, the sleepy moon hanging in the sky with the stars behind it. He ran his hand through the stars in awe just as he had imagined.

Then a man appeared at his side, glowing in the night, with a thick beard and bright white robes. The man saw the potential in Spester’s dreams, and smiled at him and gave an approving nod.

And then there was a great flash of white, and then the moon and the stars blackened completely, and Spester awoke in his village to voluble talk. A new vitality seemed to have seized the formerly quiet villagers.

They say a great bolt of lightning struck the top of the mountains, and the roars stopped.

Spester went back to his work. He hunted efficiently, and his wishes and his hopes and his dreams followed him through the plains, under the blazing sun and under the smug moon. But now he was not alone. The quiet village was quiet no more, nor was the world it rested in. The villagers wished. They hoped. They dreamed in their sleep. They dreamed in the daylight.