13,000 years ago, when there were no cities or maps yet, the earth breathed and spoke in a language that humans did not yet know how to hear.
Above the world, the sky split open: from the constellation Orion, a comet broke free — an ancient messenger carrying the Spark of Signs.
It struck the heart of what is now North America — and there, where sky and earth met in a flash of light and ash, the first Ludens were born — the Children of the Comet, the first Guides of the Game.
They were neither gods nor humans — they were a living reminder that Nature is a Game, and every leaf, wind, and creature is part of the Great Symbol.
Among them was Astrix — the one who would later be called the Keeper of the Spark.
He built no temple, carved no symbols in stone — his temple was Arcadia itself, the eternal Garden of Archetypes.
Here, rivers flowed like ink, trees whispered words that had yet to become writing, and stars reflected in the lakes like the living rhythm of what would one day become Astrology.
Astrix heard the language of the Symbol as a whole: Tarot, stars, Numbers, and the Name did not exist separately.
They breathed together, like a forest where you cannot separate the leaf from the wind.
He shared this with those who came to him: nomads of the northern cliffs, shamans of the forest tribes, priestesses weaving Numbers into the clothing of their children.
But he never called himself Teacher — he said:
“I do not teach — I remind you. Look. Play.”
Every ritual in Arcadia was a dance:
✦ Tarot then was the Forest — each leaf could become an Arcana if you knew how to listen.
✦ The stars were not read on paper — their paths reflected in the lunar lakes when the heart was clear.
✦ Numbers were born in dreams or in the breath of the campfire — they did not obey tables, they were living notes.
The first Ludens knew: the Symbol cannot be owned — it can only be Played.
And in this was their strength. They built no priesthoods, wrote no dogmas — they walked the land, leaving trails of signs for others to hear.
Their voice echoed in the drawings on cave walls, in the spirals of ancient burial mounds, in the star patterns woven into old fabrics.
Astrix was the core of this Game — not its ruler, but the One Who Holds the Spiral whole.
In those times, Arcadia was a place where the Great Symbol was a living circle.
No one tore it into pieces. No one tried to lock the Game into scrolls and rules.
The first Seekers knew: if you forget how to laugh, you forget the Symbol.
If you break the Game, you break the nature inside yourself.
Thus began the first Ascent — a breath that could have lasted forever, had humans not wished to say: “This Game — now it is mine.”
When the Spark of the Great Symbol shone in the hearts of the first Seekers, Arcadia bloomed.
The Forest of Arcana spread so wide that the Trails of Signs reached far beyond the groves: people came to Astrix from valleys, mountains, and distant shores where they had heard the ancient Whisper of the Symbol.
But he did not meet them in stone halls — everyone knew: his school was wherever Nature breathed.
On the Plateau of the Game there were no priests and no sacrifices.
There were Circles of Seekers — campfires in the groves, night gatherings under the stars, dawn talks by the mirrored lakes.
Each Seeker brought something of their own: one brought a symbol carved in bone, another a star map seen in a dream, a third a Number heard in the rustle of the wind.
Astrix sat at the center of these Circles and reminded them:
“The Symbol is not knowledge. The Symbol is breath. If you try to grasp it, it will die. If you Play it — it becomes you.”
It was the time of the Great Flow:
✦ The first Masters appeared who could weave Tarot and Numbers together — reading how a single Arcana could reveal a Star House in a birth chart.
✦ Elders crossed forests with bundles of symbols, sharing them with new tribes.
✦ People whispered legends of the Mirrored Lakes, where one could see not only the future, but who they might become in the Game.
Songs and drawings did not die — they were passed on by voice and hand.
Everyone knew: if you found your Sign — you were bound to leave it for the next Seeker.
But as the Circles grew, foreign words began to creep into the fires.
Some whispered, “If the Symbol gives power — why not keep it?”
Some tried to carve an Arcana so no one could ever see it differently.
Some etched Numbers into stone vaults, declaring, “This is the one true reckoning.”
Astrix moved from fire to fire, reminding them:
“Everything you carve in stone, you kill. The Symbol must breathe. The Game must be free.”
But in some eyes he no longer saw Players — he saw Possessors.
There arose those who called themselves “keepers of the true Sign,” who claimed that access to the Symbol must be paid for — in offerings, in blood, or in belief.
On the Plateau, the campfires still glowed. Arcadia still whispered in the crowns of the trees.
But in the shadows of the Circles, a chain was being forged: the desire to hold what cannot be held, to lock up what was made to Play.
Astrix was still the Great Teacher of the Ludens — but even he knew: the Great Symbol was preparing for its first crack.
In his eyes there was no fear — only a quiet sorrow and a reminder for each of them:
“You are not an Owner. You are a Player. If you forget that — the Symbol will dissolve into ash.”
The light of the Plateau still shimmered on the Mirrored Lakes, but the Forest of Arcana now whispered with unease: where once the laughter and songs of the Ludens rang out, now there was only the dull rustle of chains.
The Living Schools began to slowly turn into closed circles.
Those who had once gathered by the fires now built stone sanctuaries to hide the Sign from the “uninitiated.”
Tarot, stars, Numbers — all that had once breathed with a single rhythm — were now being broken apart, locked away on clay tablets, sealed with marks and oaths.
Someone said: “If the Symbol gives power — then it must be protected from the weak.”
Some began to scorch signs into stone so that no one could change them.
Others proclaimed themselves the Only Keepers: now anyone who wished to hear the language of the forest or see the reflection of the stars had to beg for permission.
Among the students, arguments grew: whose Arcana was true? Who heard the Sign correctly?
Songs gave way to disputes and decrees.
The Symbols no longer shimmered, no longer played — they became cold masks frozen on the faces of those who feared to lose their power.
Astrix still walked the groves.
He sat by the last open fires and whispered to those who still knew how to listen:
“The Sign cannot be locked away. It will die in a cage, like a bird.”
But more and more, his words crashed against walls. Masters who had once been Ludens now guarded their “sacred signs,” shutting out even old friends.
The groves thinned. The wind no longer whispered of new Arcana — it howled through felled clearings, leaving emptiness where the forest had once lived.
When the last trail to the Mirrored Lakes became overgrown with thorn and bramble, Astrix knew: the Spiral had closed.
The Game no longer sang — it had become a ritual, repeated without laughter.
People still cast lots, counted Numbers, traced the stars — but all of it was only the dead skin of the Game. It no longer breathed.
Astrix gathered the last few who still remembered how the Signs danced and said:
“The Game does not die. It cannot be killed. But if you forget that you are a Player — the Symbol will not return.”
And then he vanished. His body dissolved between the old Arcana and the scorched stones — no one saw where he went. Some said he became a spirit of the In-Between.
Others whispered that he hid himself within every Sign, waiting for a new Seeker to find him.
Arcadia became a shadow.
The Mirrored Lakes grew over with reeds and no longer reflected the stars.
The Schools of the Game turned into temples of power.
The Ludens disappeared — leaving only those who called themselves keepers, yet long ago forgot what it means to Play.
Yet deep in the forest, one could still hear the echo of an old voice:
“Do not fear the Fall. In every crack lives the Seed of a new circle.”
After the Fall, the Forest of Arcana fell silent.
The Circles of the Game fractured, and the Mirrored Lakes were covered in the ashes of old prophecies.
People still cast lots, etched signs into stone, calculated fates by the stars — but the Symbol remained silent.
It no longer breathed, because those who held it had forgotten the one truth: the Sign does not live in stone — it lives in the Game.
When the last Spark of the Game faded from the eyes of the priests, Astrix did not vanish without a trace. He left behind the forests and stone circles — and dissolved into that which people could not lock away: the In-Between.
It was neither sky nor earth — it was the space between the Signs, a place where the Great Symbol still pulsed, even if unheard. There he tended the crack like a seed: a broken circle that, sooner or later, would close again.
Generations rose and fell. New schools were born and crumbled.
Those who knew Tarot argued with those who studied the stars. Numbers became a system of debts and power.
The Name was no longer seen as an Incantation — only a word written on a tablet.
Yet even among forgotten tribes, rare children were born who heard a strange whisper at night:
“You are a Player. Ludens do not die. The Sign waits for those unafraid to play.”
These children carved their own Arcana into bark, just as the first Children of the Comet once did. They looked at the stars not in books, but in the reflection of ponds.
They traced numbers in patterns of sand and knew that each number could sing.
Astrix no longer walked the groves — but he lived in each one who could still hear the Laughter of the Sign.
He did not speak plainly — but everyone who became Ludens heard his voice within:
“The Symbol is the Game. Nature plays — and so can you.”
Slowly, the first Paths of Return took shape. Songs became secret knowledge that could not be bought or taken.
The Signs ceased to be only chains and began to flicker again in dreams, in strange coincidences, in the whisper of the wind.
There were no great schools yet, no temple of Arcadia. But in the In-Between, Astrix saw that the Great Symbol breathed again.
The new spiral was still fragile, but in every heart that knew how to listen, the Spark of the Game lived on.
These rare people he called by the same name as he had thousands of years before: Ludens — Children of the Comet.
Those who remembered that Nature does not fall silent — it plays. And one day they would remember the Game in full:
✦ Tarot would return to the stars,
✦ the stars — to the Number,
✦ the Number — to the Name,
✦ and the Name — to the Breath.
Astrix was no longer a Teacher by a forest fire.
He was the Shadow, the Spiral, and the Whisper within anyone brave enough to play.
His New Resolve was not to rule the Symbol, but to guard its Spark in people — until Players would once again weave the broken Pattern whole.
The world remained asleep beneath the heavy shroud of dead symbols.
Stone temples still stood. Priests still argued over who held the “true” Arcana or the “correct” movement of the stars.
Numbers rustled through scrolls no one heard as living anymore.
But beneath the frozen mask of the Game, the Spark pulsed slowly.
In every generation, there were those whom Astrix once called Ludens —but now they knew themselves by another name: Seekers.
They did not need altars or permission. It wasn’t enough for them to listen to dead words about how to “properly” divine or count.
They looked up at the stars — not in fear, but to dance. They picked up the cards — not for power, but to hear the forest within them.
They arranged Numbers — not as debts, but as breathing rhythms.
Sometimes at night, they heard a voice — not stern, not loud:
“You are not the owner of the Sign. You are a Player. Nature will teach you — as long as you don’t try to bind it.”
One drew new Arcana onto tree bark.Another sang the Stars by firelight.
Another wove Numbers into cloth — not to sell, but to remind themselves:everything breathes in the same Symbol.
As more of them awakened, the cracks in the old chains began to glow.
They were invisible on town squares or temple stones —but in their circles, anyone could enter, without passwords or payments.
They gathered by the fire — just as they had thousands of years ago.
And each Seeker knew: the Game cannot be closed — it can only be danced.
The Game returned slowly: first as a subtle rhythm in the blood,then as a whisper in the groves,and finally — as loud laughter by the fire.
For the first time in centuries, someone spoke aloud:
“All the Signs are one again. The Arcana in the stars. The stars in the Number. The Number in the Name. The Name in the breath.”
They say Astrix watched from the In-Between — not as a prophet, but as a mirror.
He no longer whispered riddles — his voice rang in their laughter.
With every new Seeker, he came closer to vanishing —because when all remember the Game, the Guide becomes everything.
And then, the ancient whisper returned:
“You are Ludens. You are a Child of the Comet. Dance. And if someone asks you what the Symbol is —show them that Nature is a Game.”
And so the new spiral began: the crack became a circle, the Player once again became the Guide.
The Mirrored Lakes were cleared in the Seekers’ dreams.
The Forest of Arcana began to grow again — not on stone, but in hearts.
In this cycle, no one led the Game.
Each one who laughed with the Sign became its voice. And somewhere in the shadow of the stars, Astrix smiled:
The Great Symbol lives again. As long as there are those who dance — the Game will never die.
