Long before anyone wrote anything down, people lay on their backs, joined the dots in the dark, and told each other what they saw. A hunter. A crooked ladder. A bear that was definitely, if you squinted, a bear. None of those lines exist. Every constellation is a made-up drawing over random stars, kept alive because someone told its story to someone else. LORE hands you that oldest game with the whole sky blank. You hang a few stars where you like, and when you ask, the sky gives your shape a name and tells you its myth.
Why it exists
Naming things is how humans befriend them. A patch of stars is nothing; "the patient heron" is something you will look for again. The toy is built around that one small moment: your shape stops being yours alone and becomes a thing with a story, as if it had always been up there and you had only just noticed it.
It lives in the immerse wing, so the promise holds all the way down. No score, no timer, no way to lose, and nobody else's sky to compare against. It is a place to sit inside for a while, and it is finished whenever you are.
How it works
You draw, the sky reads
Touch the night and a star hangs where you touched. Lines follow the order you placed them. When you ask for the name, the sky reads the shape itself: how many stars, how long and thin, whether it closes on itself, how sharply it turns. A ring becomes a crown or a teacup. A long thin line becomes a ladder or a river. A jagged spread becomes a thorn, or a fox.
The myth is grown, never fetched
The name and the story come from the shape alone, assembled from the sky's own word lists and fragments. Nothing is sent anywhere to be written. Draw the same shape again and the sky will tell you the same story, the way a grandmother does.
The sky remembers
Named constellations stay hung exactly where you drew them, faint and gold. Come back tomorrow and they are still there, over a fresh spread of background stars, because tonight's sky is seeded from tonight's date. Touch an old star and the sky whispers its name back.
Keep it, or tell someone
Every naming can become a picture: your constellation, its name, on a card the size of a phone screen. Constellations stay lit by being talked about. That has been true for about forty thousand years, and it is true here too.
The quiet parts
No account, no ads, nothing following you around. Your constellations live in your own browser and nowhere else; nothing you draw or name ever leaves your device. The names come from the sky's fixed word lists, never from a keyboard, which is how the place stays sweet with no moderator watching it. If you clear your browser, the sky forgets, the way real skies do when the city lights come on.