She sat on the ground each day, at the banks of the gates, and stared into thier neverending length, reaching far beyond the sky.
She was a feary, born of the evening flower, as many were. A white, pure flower, with golden grains of spirit pollen that interwoven with threads of soul created pure cherubs. Behind thoes strong gates of Adwen, they were safe from the world.
She looked upon them, with great unhappiness. Alone, always alone. The only child in Adwen to be unhappy. Her unhappiness, tainted the immaculate peace.
The preists, founders of Adwen, currupted the holyness with their spite and inconsideration for this small creature, born with wings as black as the midnight sky, dotted with brillient stars and strikes of wild purple. No cherubs wings were black. Black, darkness, did not belong to Adwen. No feary had seen the colour till her blooming.
Now, she sat alone, at the steps of the gate, awaiting her exicution..."The only way to rid Adwen of sin" they say. But what a sin they were about to commit, one unable to be undone.