In darkness, She slumbers. In darkness, She wakes. From her fluttering eyes, dust pours out; her yawn sets it alight. Round and round the dust goes, and together it comes, growing. As it grows, it flourishes, and as it flourishes, it breathes, and as it breathes, it lives, and grows larger. In her shape it transforms, richly brown as her skin, speckled green as her hair, cloaked in blue as her gown. It burns within, and teams without.

On its surface, people move. As they move, they change; as they change, they dream. What they dream, they build. Enamoured with them She becomes and thus grants them one last gift: from her womb She brings forth knowledge and power: magic.

With the knowledge they dream larger and build higher; with the power, they cut deeper and destroy further. 

But what She gives, She cannot take, so She sighs. Her sigh blows over the globe, and what it touches, returns to dust. As new forms fill the void, the knowledge is there: when our day comes, the Goddess’s sigh will touch us all.


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