The Narrator who wouldn't shut up

The Day the Sky Spoke

"I am not a side character. I refuse.”

— Written angrily on the Public Board of Yelsin

Yelsin had survived drought, taxes, bandits, and the occasional magical pest, yet nothing prepared its people for the moment the holy scroll gifted to the elders a few days prior erupted into glittering dust. Ostentatiously titled "The Very Sacred, Definitely Authentic, Mostly-Legible Prophecy Scroll-I Will Find a Proper Name Later,” it was meant to be the centerpiece of a ceremonial sermon celebrating the settlement’s hundred-year anniversary. The local priests expected inspiration. The villagers were eager for the following feast.

Instead, what they got was a disaster.

As the elders prepared to begin the ceremony, the parchment detonated like an overripe fruit, showering the square in shimmering dust. For a single breath, all was still. Then a voice - vast, theatrical, and unmistakably pleased with itself - rolled across the rooftops.

Confusion swept the crowd. Not one villager knew what a "natural one” was, only that the sky sounded far too smug about it. From that moment on, everything started to go wrong. Not because the voice was wise, or even remotely helpful, but because it absolutely refused to shut up.

Life Under the Narrator

At first, Yelsin assumed it was cursed, haunted, or afflicted by a new god with questionable comedic timing. But gods rarely predict a sneeze before the man himself feels it coming, and even if they do, they certainly don’t bother announce it. Gods do not narrate a woman’s walk across the street with the gravity of an epic saga. And not once in recorded history had a god rolled dice loudly in the sky moments before someone attempted to empty their bowels in peace.

The voice observed every errand, every stumble, every questionable life choice with relentless enthusiasm. And worse than the commentary was what the Narrator revealed unintentionally. It spoke about the villagers’ lives as if they were hastily written stories. They reacted exactly when dramatic timing demanded, faltered precisely when tension required, and encountered strangers only on meaningful days. Their world had pacing. Their days had arcs. Their routines had resets. Soon it became clear. Coincidence wasn’t guiding their lives; someone with way too many dice and bad ideas was.

The Cruel Fate of Yelsin

Living with the Narrator was like sharing a home with a loud, controlling playwright who had misplaced his script and was improvising aggressively. The voice commented on every motion, from the noble to the embarrassing, often announcing a villager’s intention before they themselves had realized it. People even began forgetting their own names, only for the Narrator to assign new ones on the spot; each more ridiculous than the last. Within a week, Yelsin contained an alarming population of Bobs, Robs, and Gobs, and those were the reasonable ones.

The voice did more than comment. It revealed things no one wished to know.

A fisherman, mid-argument, was informed that he had “ALWAYS BEEN QUICK-TEMPERED - IT SERVES THE NARRATIVE.” He had never once considered himself quick-tempered until that moment. He reevaluated his life choices for the rest of the day. And another time, young Marla McMarlamore was stunned to hear, as she was delivering bread, the Narrator declare that she was "DESTINED TO BE A MID-LEVEL ROMANTIC INTEREST,” whatever that meant.

Even worse than the narrating was the revelation of the unseen hands behind it all. There were moments when the voice paused and then the villagers felt another presence looming above them as if preparing to shape their fates. A presence the voice deferentially referred to only as "the Players.”