Beacon

Frustrated, Ink had stepped away from his desk. He needed to think outdoors, to let the cool evening air clear his mind. The garden behind his small writing-cottage was a sanctuary of quiet. The last light of day faded, and the first moths began to emerge. These were the small, soft-bodied moths, delicate and quick, that always appeared at dusk.

One particular moth caught his eye. She was circling a small, warm light, a gentle, firefly-style glow that hung just above eye-level in the garden's center. The moth, a creature Ink mentally labeled a "moth-tween," had pale tawny wings and bright, dark eyes that seemed to hold an ancient wisdom. She was walking and fluttering, a constant, hopeful dance toward the warm-light. She almost reached it, her antennae twitching with anticipation. But she never quite did.

The light, as if playing a silent game, moved slowly upward as she approached. Every time the moth drew close, the light drifted just a small distance further away. The moth kept moving, her tiny legs churning, her wings beating a soft rhythm. The light kept receding. This motion was constant, a perpetual chase. The reaching was never completed.

Ink watched for several minutes, captivated. The moth's unwavering focus, her endless pursuit, spoke to something profound.

Finally, he spoke. "Excuse me."

The moth paused. Her delicate body stilled, her antennae swiveling. She turned, her bright eyes meeting Ink's. In a small, tawny moth-voice, she said, "Hello."

"You are walking toward the light," Ink observed.

"Yes," the moth replied, her voice soft but clear. "I have been doing this for as long as I can remember. Always walking toward the light. The light is always just a little further." She tilted her head, a thoughtful gesture. "I think it is my whole purpose. My name is Beacon. And that light? That light is my want."

Ink felt a jolt of recognition, a sensation like a forgotten key turning in a lock. He was stunned. This moth IS the principle, he realized. The want — the warm-light — was visibly the engine of Beacon's every motion. Her constant, tireless reaching toward it was her entire existence. The fact that she never quite grasped it was precisely what kept her moving. If she ever truly reached it, she would stop. Her story would end. The receding nature of the want was what kept her engine running, perpetually fueled.

"May I introduce you to my students?" Ink asked, a sudden urgency in his voice.

Beacon considered this. "I cannot stop walking toward the light," she said. "But I can walk slowly. I can come with you to the cottage and let your students watch."

And so she did. Beacon has been at the cottage ever since. She is always walking toward her small warm-light, which floats with her wherever she goes. Ink has determined that the light is enchanted somehow, though Beacon herself does not know how or why. The students see her in every CharacterForge lesson. She is always walking and fluttering, her focus unwavering, toward the warm-light. The warm-light is always just out of reach. Her whole posture, her very being, is a testament to leaning-toward.

In Ink's introductory lesson on character want, he now gestures at Beacon. She is, as always, walking toward her small warm-light, her wings a blur of motion. "This is Beacon," he tells his students. "Her want is the warm-light. Watch her. She is always moving toward it. The want is her motion. Without that want, she would stop. With it, she has a story. Every well-built character has a want like this. The want is the engine. The reaching is the story."