…childish laughter, the lullabies fading into oblivion. Before this and perhaps after this everything is and will be only an echo. The echo is sweet and varied, but it cannot be unique for as a rule it is only a copy. But what is the instigator? If time is a river and not a line, perhaps the cause, the beginning, starts now.. perhaps you witness here the epitome of reality’s empty prose, perhaps you witness here everything that has been and will be. There have been no prophecies and no omens except perhaps tonight the moon will not seem so benign as foreign, perhaps tonight the stars will snatch back the mystique they once held. Perhaps tonight the moonlight will again be fey. Because what is tonight, if not magic? If what I have said is true, what happens tonight is beyond anything resembling comprehension, it is primitive, instinctive. The tale has gone on for far too long and lately there has been a sense of waiting in it’s children… waiting, listening. They know, yes, they know. This is the catalyst. Can’t anybody else see that, are they all blind? True, the names are obscure, merely legends if remembered at all, but this, this is the beginning and the end of the story. Come now; gather round, to pass the time spent waiting I shall tell you grand tales, glorious and dark as any other told in this strange place. They are bizarre and idyllic in turn, but each sets the stage for this one event, this one birth…

Tonight, two children born, two dynasties continued. I will tell you now of the one I know of, the line of the victor.

Her name was Broken Siren. Was there any who questioned her? Never, and so her story was never told. And as this is where I begin, nor shall I, she will always remain an enigma. Ah, but she was victory, any fool could see this. The fires of the conqueror have dulled in her line since that time and so you may not be able to understand the glory inherent in her very stride. She was shameless, she did not doubt herself, her voice was the bidding of a monarch, her gaze fierce with the livid pyres of confidence and satire entwined. When she spoke it was sheer mockery and it was callous, a dagger cold and merciless. To defy the victor as sheer folly, she answered only to one and that was her comrade and sister in arms Martyr, the leader of the Unpredictable Souls. Do you not understand, is this too foreign to you? I cannot explain further, I fear. Her first child was Siren Cry and Siren Cry was the silver banshee, dam of the Tyrant and his dead twin Cacophony. Yet the Queen of the Dimension is only a minor character in this ludicrous play and we move on now (past Flawless Victory, the second child of the Siren) towards Epic.

Are there those who have not heard her story? The legacy of the Broken Siren, born to the death of her dam she was the cynical rapture, the indifferent saviour, the crownless queen, the defiant princess of the Hawks, the obsession of her Damestin. Fleeing nothing and everything she pulled him to Gullshore where she stole the crown with trademark ease, flamboyant and vain she called herself perfection and was not rebuked, for she was beautiful, she was beloved, she was hated, admired, cherished, idolized, degraded. She was Epic and could be nothing else. Victory could not be diminished in her veins even in defeat and she refused to meekly bow to conquest. To her and Damestin were born Herne and Artemis (who was killed as a Gull spy in Ravenglade). Now we come to a time when Epic left with Herne to a mysterious war, heavy with the foal which would be born to be Athame. In her absence she was overthrown as was Damestin and Damestin committed suicide among Gullshore’s callous waves. Three days after his death she returned flanked by Herne and the young mare Athame. Grief changed her, true downfall humbled her, and eventually insanity became the only solace she could find. Calling out the name of Damestin she succumbed and died in the eerily idyllic pastures of the Shore.

My voice falters, I grow nervous. The birth approaches and I will begin to hurry my story.

Victory had faltered, and from this point on the line was never the same. Herne dissapeared soon after his dam’s death yet Athame remained, gathering no great interest save in her words for she was a Wiccan and a philosopher. Ah, time went on as time is wont to do, she became the mother of a colt by the name of Samhain who left the dimension as a yearling. Weakened by fever she died giving birth to twins by the names of Chalice and Incense. Chalice is forgotten and only the Gods know where she roams – it is to Incense that we shall now turn our gaze. Ignored by her dam’s greatest allies, forgotten by her sire, she made her life on the outskirts of the Shore, seeking solitude, integrity, and the wisdom that Athame brought to her grave. Beautiful and beneign, the pagan, the philosopher, her mother’s child and her mother’s heir. Never a warrior, but oh, in her blood still rushed victory, still rushed the false drumbeat of her heritage. Diluted, perhaps, but she was still the heir of Broken Siren. Herne came, became King, dissapeared once more. Only the Gods know where he roams, now.

Oh… Incense, solitary Incense, beautiful child of Athame, met with Aldebaran. In her was conceived two children… one to be Aldebaran’s heir, one to be her own. Oh, the workings of above in a mortal womb, yes, this is how it shall be, this is how it begins, this is how it ends… this is HOW IT CONTINUES. Have I woven for you the history of this mare, have I told you, do you yet understand? Look well now upon her, and understand, UNDERSTAND FULLY!

Blinking quietly, she raises her muzzle, nostrils flaring bright red as she gulps in the cold night air. It burns her lungs, but she has long since adjusted to this and ignores it in favor of peering upon the two small figures huddled at her side (both fillies – both black). One stirs, and the mare places a comforting muzzle against the child’s back.

“Shh… quiet now, Reminiscence.”

Aiee, and it begins, it ends, it continues. These are Fading Light and Reminiscence. Fading Light’s future, her past, they are both as intricate as her twin’s, but I know nothing of her… her chronicles will be spoken by another, perhaps, some other day

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