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Open the door. Enter her lair. Inside you will find a pale figure, clad in black, sitting in a chair. Blood red and ebony curly hair, oil slick make-up, ripping talons, burning eyes, and wicked razor blade smile. She is reading. Terry Pratchett, R A Salvatore, Niel Gaiman, Edgar Allen Poe, Shakespeare. Drawings, paintings, sculptures, art supplies scattered about the floor, piled on the bed. Candles, purple Christmas lights, red-bulbed penguin lamp. Posters and lithographs bedeck the walls. Faeries. Elves. Dragons. Vampyre. A vast array of myth and fancy...or possibly reality? The room smells of smoke and incense. Dragons blood, myrrh, sage, sweetgrass, roses. Her altar glows with the light of candles, shadows are thrown by skulls and crystals, a myriad of shapes and colors... Imagination and creativity swirl and echo, bouncing on the walls, emitting from her shell. An ancient and weary creature, wise and forlorn, unloved and forever loathed. Innocent and damned. This is her world. Her love. Her dream. Her reality. As the real world around her crumbles and decays, the one she built will never die. Her name is Raenafelle. And she bids you welcome, mortal. |
