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 Time was it's own Keeper. Those foolish enough to attempt to master it often found themselves its unwilling slave, bound to eternity to keep where they were, to struggle the most vain of struggles. Had only they learned that time was a fickle creature, and to truly master it, one must accept it; the wrinkles, the scars, the sagging flesh. One must dance in its shadows, revel in its ecstacy, become one with it. As the sun arose from the ragged treelined horizon in the east, she awoke with lethargic motions. As soft fingers wove their magic across the night washed lands, she came to life. As it rose like a pheonix from the depthless graves of night to flare in the glowing morning sky, she echoed its call, flesh burning to life. Molten spheres, cesspools of knowledge, rimmed with golden flecks, blinked away the blur of night. Knotted, tattered locks shrouding her aged features in silken curtains of pallid hues, slinked, parting to allow the play of life to begin. She moved with a slightly arrogant grace. She was a sight, that much was true. Her flesh was that of the newborn sun, ghostly and luminescent. Scars ran here and there, testiments of the life she lead. It had not always been an easy life, and at times it had almost got the best of her, but whether thick headed, or strong willed, she had perceveired over those who sought to overthrow her, and as they sunk into the murky fires of her hell, she arose to embrace life with a new zest. Hips swayed in a hypnotic motion, pale train flicking idly upon taunt flanks, before resting to train its long length upon the solid emerald floor. She had no particular destination in mind. Amid the flurish of the emerald world, the pixie emerged from beneath the vast expanse of darkened foliage, features alert as she halted abruptly. Regal crown arose, striking upwards before vocals released the sweet blaring notes from deep within her recesses, only to cut them short in a staccatoed halt. |
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