Malachite colored leaves fluttered in the thick breeze, thick like blood, coagulating in the air. A storm was flooding the misty precipice range, desquamating rubble down into the blades of grass about the northern rim, of the forest beyond where the sun would sit. Deep in this mesh of green, a stone ring in an opening led stars to be seen, it’s angles and windows were measured precise to visualize where to spot stars at night. Within this circle sat an old man, his face like a mountainside, and the valleys his hands.
Dressed in black and stitched up in white, his hair blew like the leaves colored Euchroite. This man would stay tucked up in his cloak for days or for weeks, his intentions not cruel, but misunderstood, not oblique. When night came the city nights would glimmer, and the aphotic sky would become increasingly dimmer, but nothing was as black as this dark ring of stones, measuring stars from the planet below.