Branch 2

The energy coalesced into something that resembled a fine glowing rain in the air. It settled across the field of carnagless death sitting just above everything as if attached by invisible strings.

The keeper placed his hand into the pocket of his robe and smiled removing a small wooden box. He carefully opened the lid and held it out in the palm of his hand.

The energy began to twist into a visiblly pulsing stream. Slowly at first, it stretched, then warped, then flowed towards the box. As it did so it pulled the scene before the keeper with it.

The sky above the battlefield began to go hazy in places. Then it, and everything else within this eerily silent, bloodless, scene began to shrink. The hazyness turned to blackness as the whole image was dragged into the fine line that followed the energy.

After only a few moments the keeper was standing in utter darkness. He closed the box and placed it back into his pocket before turning and vanishing.


Every good artists needed a muse. Be they a playwrite, a poet or a sculpter they all have one thing in common, inspiration. Pellius was the Muse of Half Formed Thought. He kept the archives in the library of the muses where tales ended without beginnings. Where scenes played out for no reason or a character was born simply to stand idle.

He walked the infinite corridors of the library, gazing at the equally infinite shelves that accompanied them. On each and every one where neat little rows of boxes. Each shelf held a card upon which was noted the owner, their age and the time and date of every thought.

Pellius stopped at one of the emptier shelves and picked up the card which sat neatly in a bracket at it's centre.

"Caleb Smith, Age Thirteen years, idea five hundred billion and two."

As the words left his mouth they appeared on the piece of paper before vanishing. He placed the box on the shelf which then dissappeared among the rows of packed up notions.

He scratched his head.

"Hmm I'm going to have to do something about this one ... thirteen years of age and his shelf is already a third full. If he carries on like this he'll never get anywhere. Another unfinished battle ... hasn't he realised that it's all over done?"

Resignedly the muse sighed and vanished.

The End

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