Lighting a path in rainbow colours, she looks with distaste at a black monster, Like a Viper-dragon with a snarl more viscious than a tiger's roar. Her dress swishes as chiffon, the colours of sunsets, the texture of petals. Her hair is tied with indision between black of night and rainbow shades, falling in ringlets to her ivory elbows. A crystal palace lies in a distant daze, overshadowed by angry, billowing green clouds, that rumble, seeming repelled by the young girl's majesty. The septure she fingers is another indecision between the dark base and the rainbow fire billowing from it. Her wings are of a pattern so intricate only the elves could've crafted such masterpeices, and her dress, though delicate, showed as much majesty, using bold colours and white gold patches and lines of colour, not dissimilar to those of rags and zebras. But this was when her reputation was grand, and her kingdom revered. Now her's is a tale of woe, not majestic beauty.