-the author wishes to credit the above art to Dave McKean and Neil Gaiman
' Some labels are forced on us. They mark us, set us apart until we're like ghosts just drifting through other peoples lives. But only if, we let the labels hold. You can throw your whole life away, trying to figure out who you might be. It is only when you've worked out who you are, that you can really start to live. '
-From the BBC original series, Being Human
" Will you, cross the fields of gold for me?"
Morning fog washed the landscape of Venna in a universal solvent. Golden grass, burned from the sun, became as silver as the first light of the horizon beyond it. And still, the world as she knew it, hibernated, lulled by the songs of insects, of birds, and animal's chuff's. Inside the one room cottage, you could be insulated from the beauty. From its spell. She smoked near an open window. The heavy curtain pulled aside so she could watch the shrinking form of a man cross the fields of vines on their trellis'. High above, a Tarn circled. It would be a day's ride back to the Glorious City of Ar.
The nomination had been pushed across the desk. It bore her name, with the beautiful Gorean script for the letter O, outlined in etched calligraphy. " May I keep this?", she had asked, lifting the parchment to admire it. The man behind the desk looked up wearily, and nodded. Whether she was an annoyance or he was truly that tired was unclear, but, for certain, at this moment she stared down at everything she'd ever worked for. The unobtainable goal, achieved. For someone such as Oman Khan, this should have been an auspicious occasion. She turned to leave the Great Hall. " You know of course," she said over a shoulder back to the man behind the ebony desk, " I must decline." Walking passed the monuments of their archives along the walls in their glass cases, the man replied, " Yes, of course." The double doors of carved Black opened simultaneously as she strode through them.
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