astrapocalypse

The last refrains of a mournful violin poured over the snow-covered landscape of The Dancer's kingdom. Each note reverberated gently, clearly audible over the shrieks of wind whipping through the small village that sat just down the hill from her great and shadowed castle. Layers of white blanketed over all signs in life in cool apathy of its sole inhabitant, obscuring everything from the cobblestone alleys to the archaic wooden roofs from sight. Whorls of frost clung to the walls and windows of every building like encroaching ivy with crystalline vines and leaves that glistened in the light. The shades that drifted through the town were nowhere to be seen or felt, their ever-thin presences faded into nothingness in the wake of such a lengthy coldsnap. The Dancer herself laid buried beneath a large snowdrift piled unnaturally high in the middle of the village square, resting soundly in the comfort of her voluminous veil. Beneath this snow was a darkness both pure and soft, the heavy

The faintest flicker of an intruder startled Ala from her half-doze, her senses sharpening in an instant. She wasn't one to enforce the firm boundaries of her kingdom-- these things were always shifting, with one stygian being her neighbor one day and distant the next-- but visitors were so few and far between that any outsider was threat first and friend second. She stretched atop her hoard, wings spreading and tail curling, shaking her great head to clear her mind of the fuzzy cobwebs that came with being in a state of rest, in that quiet state where she could stay still and dormant for long stretches of time without external stimuli. Engaging with a trespasser would be easier done in human form rather than her primary one, given the unwieldy nature of preferring to be a hundred feet tall from hoof to horn, and so she let her body fold itself into her more diminutive shape that walked on two legs rather than four. She examined herself briefly in one of the many mirrors in her

You are that which was born and bred and reared and rend within the walls of the Labyrinth. You are, too, that which was kept slumbering between pulsing walls and winding hedges, watched over by countless eyes and watched with them in turn. You are, too, all too aware of the intricacies of your home, or perhaps a seedbed, or perhaps overgrown hedges, or perhaps a box. You look at the box before you, smiling. Yes, a box is quite right indeed. "Old friend," you say, even though you've never met it, and it surely cannot hear you, "it's rather nice to see you, like this." The box does not answer-- it is only a box, after all-- and sits very neatly upon its desk. (You assume, anyway, that it is the box's desk. Perhaps it's a bit rude, but there is nothing around to claim it in its stead.) It is red, and black, and blood, and shadow. It is the echo of your chrysalis-- only hard edges instead of something dozing softly-- before you blossomed into glorious white and magenta. Until you

In the shadowed night of a kingdom known for its bright lights and big top delights writhes the form of a hideous and many-eyed behemoth. Its shape is a familiar one-- albeit a significantly larger one than the knee high critter she’s accustomed to-- and Clerise is confident that her quarry, despite its horrible visage, is no match for the likes of her. It’s decided to invade her personal domain, after all, and she’s one to let potential threats slide, even if the thing hasn’t yet made contact with the landscape of her sprawling circus home. Other stygian may have wondered why a titanic abysseel was wandering in the wild, but not Clerise. It’s easier to strike first and think later, if she bothered to think about it at all. Cliche as it may be, all that she cares about in this moment is the thrill of a hunt. The opportunity to prove who was the real apex predator around these parts. The chance to spill aether into the air and all of its wispy glory. Clerise’s laugh echos through

Deep within the Labyrinth, something stirred. This, of course, was not unusual: the Labyrinth was nothing if not a thing of perpetual motion, a neverending symphony of chaos played in a splendorous and discordant key. Its Floors were many and its oddities were more, and if you asked him, The Eleventh Hour was rather proud of having and *being* exemplary examples of them both. Not that anyone had asked him any*thing* for quite some time; until this very moment, he had been in the midst of a pleasant nap, its duration impossible to determine. Time was so hard to gauge from within the walls of the Labyrinth, and The Eleventh Hour rarely quibbled over its finer points when he roused. (He was, after all, going to be late regardless.) Instead of concerning himself with such things, The Eleventh Hour simply sighed a contented sigh and unfurled into his leviathan shape. Matte black scales and a golden spine gleamed beneath a falling curtain of candles, and for a moment he basked in the

As sure as he sensed their descent into W?nd?rl?nd, so too does The Eleventh Hour sense the reverse for each and every visitor that chooses to leave in that natural way. They've learned all they can from the rustling leaves of the hedge maze, from the siren ring of a room bleeding red, from a throne handmade and empty-- and now it is time for their ascent. They rise from deep within The Labyrinth-- like a bucket from the bottom of a deep, deep well, like amusement park balloons with cut strings flung into cloudless skies, like a single note ringing out clear and true into a breathless audience-- leaving behind the walls of his shared creation with knowledge anew. Knowledge to be tucked beneath their breast or cast aside without a second thought. A gift to be kept or to be squandered, as all gifts are. The Eleventh Hour turns this thought over and over in his head like a smooth riverstone as each visitor flickers briefly through the Fourteenth Floor on their way to the surface of