Child of the Illustrious Voidwalk
The Dancer sinks ever onward into the void. The prior place is already a memory, now a factor only of the interior mind, and not of the exterior body.
The Dancer sings a song to herselves. The stars about form an elegant tapestry. Invisible lines trace their ways between them, forming beautiful loops and curves.
The Dancer ponders the present, for she cares not for the past and knows not of the future. The very concepts are alien to her. Each of her.
The Dancer is alone. She wanders onwards through the stars, separated by the vast gulfs of space and time from any of her physical kin.
The Dancer is crowded. Many minds wander throughout her own inner fortress, a society of their own. Her many children wait in stasis, within her fertile core. Their day is not now.
The Dancer is cold. As she drifts at impossible speeds, she can feel the heat slowly radiating out of her skin. Her body is sealed to the outside, draining constantly of vitality as the ancient technology in which she is clad, bitter to touch, feeds itself off her body.
The Dancer burns. The light of billions of suns bathes her without end. The heat settles mercilessly and incessantly. Space travel is a miserable thing.
The Dancer sleeps. Conservation of energy for this long time is critical to her survival. Even in the darkest internal depths, the voices are silent.
The Dancer waits. Her day is not now.
The Dancer sinks ever onward into the void. The prior place is already a memory, now a factor only of the interior mind, and not of the exterior body.
The Dancer sings a song to herselves. The stars about form an elegant tapestry. Invisible lines trace their ways between them, forming beautiful loops and curves.
The Dancer ponders the present, for she cares not for the past and knows not of the future. The very concepts are alien to her. Each of her.
The Dancer is alone. She wanders onwards through the stars, separated by the vast gulfs of space and time from any of her physical kin.
The Dancer is crowded. Many minds wander throughout her own inner fortress, a society of their own. Her many children wait in stasis, within her fertile core. Their day is not now.
The Dancer is cold. As she drifts at impossible speeds, she can feel the heat slowly radiating out of her skin. Her body is sealed to the outside, draining constantly of vitality as the ancient technology in which she is clad, bitter to touch, feeds itself off her body.
The Dancer burns. The light of billions of suns bathes her without end. The heat settles mercilessly and incessantly. Space travel is a miserable thing.
The Dancer sleeps. Conservation of energy for this long time is critical to her survival. Even in the darkest internal depths, the voices are silent.
The Dancer waits. Her day is not now.