by Mike Allen
The truth, some claim, has a portrait of its own riddled through the Cosmic Sphere's black shell that admits its deep blue light, refraction of an unseen power. The fey pestilence who in this layer of what can be hold sway in forest mounds and mountain hearts claim these pinpricks of azure are not stars, but tunnels outside time, the heads of the trails they followed, that ended here. Yet what shape do these mysteries take in this sky? Some claim a lyre, longing for fingers to coax songs of grief and war. Some claim a balance, its empty scale fed human hearts found wanting. Some claim a veil, which hides a face that aches for our regard, its beauty sure to blind all beholders.
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