I had dreamed of attending the Ball, last year, but I tripped, over the black and blue body of a young woman, fell on my face and was left there, covered in her blood, slipping as I tried to stand up again.

Staring, at my hands, at her form, in horror, in shock.

I waited, for her to move, for some sign of life, that it could not be true. But alas, I stood and waited, until it was too late- the last few rivulets of her sweet life drained away, her light faded.

And why? I asked my self why?

Not far from the mansion, perhaps a night's walk depending upon your determination and speed, sleeps a town by night. You must go through a forest, thick at first then thinning towards the center.

Solomon wandered outside with his hood lowered over his crimson eyes. He motioned to wards the willow tree and rested his head against its damp bark while thinking to himself. These thoughts had haunted his mind for some time, the story of his father. That damned insane creature that called himself Solomons father. He was nothing more then a drone of the devil a puppet.

Solomon went to his knees and pulled a tome out from under his cloak and began to read.

Dorian Tariguard
Father Of Saints

She enters the great hall, shaking away the mild weather. The same hospitality greets her as before. She makes her way to the hallway she had admired in her first visit here. She frowned slightly at the dust that had begun to build in the absince of travelers.

It was Mid-Day Monday and Adara, a fair skinned lady with short black hair and hazel honey eyes, sat at her office desk; staring at the wall with a blank stare thinking of absolutely nothing. Her name meant Beauty in Greek and Virgin in Latin, named after her great great grandmother; She was said to be the matron of the Noble Irish Court. Adara, just short of her 26th birthday was the CEO of AVTI, a magazine devoted to Politics and Editorials.

It was whilst wandering through a small copse, upon a largely untrodden path that I first took notice of the quiet old house, partially hidden as it is in this dark wood...

I approached rapidly and felt greatly at ease with the lay of the land around, bringing to me as it did a sense of comfort, perhaps relief, resulting in a deep sigh escaping my dry lips.

I reached the door shortly after dusk, the old lamp casting a hazy glow and I felt the warmth and smelt the acridity from the old burning oil.

The curtains have opened
Chairs are empty, house is quiet
Lights cast their unearthly brightness
Elder Daniel opens this house on faith that
build it and they shall come
Will he be in vain?
I think not.

Those dusty velvet red curtains swing open
Revealing a young woman just as dusty
She is wearing the same material as the curtains
A long opera dress cascading to the floor
As is she materialized from within the fabric themselves

Music starts from a phantom orchestra
Souls of musicians the Muse had favored centuries before

Silence rings around my ears. Too harsh it finds me here alone. The laughter of good times, enchanting tales, and dear friends have faded. Don't get me wrong, the memories are still here. Painted on the walls even, but alas these are but echoes of long cold footsteps.

How ironic to reflect that is was her lonliness that brought her here. That the prophet should meet his muse. Did Daniel ever really meet his angels? Did he really know who saved him and explained his visions? No, he took it on Faith, and never asked any questions of his benefactors.

Incense, candlesticks
Citrus, red wine
Spinning a web
Much deeper than mine

Books of poetry
Scripture and law
Fail to describe
The woman I saw

Wildcat, screech owl,
Serpent entwined
These are images
Burned in my mind

Roses aren't just red
Violets aren't blue
These are just flowers
But lilacs are true

Into the shadows
She has been forced
From the mundane
She's been divorced

Out from the light
Has she been driven
Found one who wears
Colors of prism

Following echoes
Of her footfalls
He missed her place
In the great halls

Made her a home
In his domain