Lin Sing

In a dark room, with only one yellowish tinted light lighting the room, a young man sits. His hands moving, shaking with a certain rhythm; a string of yarn in his hand.

Shaking his head, he muttered, "Why can I never get the stitch right. I always miss one or two spots."

His name was Lin Sing, he turned 17 this year. And every year, he would make one thing. Be it a stuffed bear, a carpet, or something of the like. Only one. He though it would be bad luck to make another. He hadn't even tried to make another thing.

This year, he was making a crocheted bag, using yarn of the color blue. There was a pattern that almost looked like flowers on the bag. "They were supposed to be roses, to contrast the blue. I'm so mad that the red color turned violet thanks to the bags dye. This one would have been the best one out of the rest. It still looks unfinished. Let's see what attribute it got. *sigh*"

The first thing Lin made was a ball (which he threw it out the window and his parents returned to him). Right now, it was sitting in his attic (just like all the others lol). It had the property of earth, the thing he made it out of (mud if u can't guess). Everything that he made was given a property only he could see. The type of things he made didn't matter, the materials mattered to some extent, but the outcome was always something. He didn't know how the property was related to the thing made, but knowing satisfied him.

He sat the bag down, and stared at it. He had just finished it. Then, as a faint flash of light appeared, he murmured, "A mix of earth and life (plants and sheep). 'Fun', I guess."