Information
Palimpsest has a minion!
Minion the Glady
Minion the Glady
Palimpsest
Legacy Name: Palimpsest
The
Glade HarvesterOwner:
StarongieAge: 11 years, 1 month, 4 weeks
Born: March 6th, 2013
Adopted: 11 years, 1 month, 4 weeks ago
Adopted: March 6th, 2013
Statistics
- Level: 99
- Strength: 237
- Defense: 232
- Speed: 232
- Health: 230
- HP: 227/230
- Intelligence: 364
- Books Read: 364
- Food Eaten: 0
- Job: Head of Operations
The sun has escaped its cocoon once again! Bring forth the morning, the bright line of horizon starting to shimmer with color at the edges. The cold shell of the moon has fallen apart, sinking into the sky. He knew, with all the wisdom of one that spends his days creating answers for reality, that just beyond the horizon there was a vicious battle going on. Yet, it would persevere! It did, of course, do so every single day without fail, so his hypothesis was foolproof. The screams from a close distance quickly grew louder now, and he twisted up to scream with the best of them, a shadow flitting across the forest. He went to ring the bell, and waited in those long hours as the other creatures blinked awake, the sloths switching their branches with every hundredth second as the birds dived, circling their nests to keep one eye on the chicks, the other on the prey.
The world went on.
Somewhere beyond, as he gathered leaves and collected the sap, salvaged rainwater and listened to the trees, he felt all the bright moments of life wisp around, some warring with one another, others in a symphony of fire, and the whole sky of them, falling and cascading as new stars and dead light. He could feel the aged spirits of the mountain gods, he knew of their coming and goings as the land decided their masters, century and century again, giving rise, testing out new and old patterns, evolution circling all around themselves. It had been long, but the world spun with a certainty of constants, and he could see the bulking humanoid shapes slowly losing their hairy bodies, their spines become stronger, rigid. He could see it in the deaths of trees, multiplying. There had been times when he had begun to fear the changes, sense its oncoming, the inevitable collision, that sudden and roaring -
that unpredictable end.
His job had always been simple, his one of many similar. He had, over the centuries, simply kept collecting the leaves that fell from the human camps, the villages and tribes, their empire, and the eventual human metropolis. He had walked past fields of leaves all covered in sap, filled with empty rements and trinkets from various lands scattering the areas. Him, in his curiosity, had ended up with a rather large gallery. The work, instead, gave insight to the other questions that he dreamt up stories for. Vials of sap, all holding together manuscripts of dozens of leaves, each life glittering in the process, and then to return them all, as much as could be done, into the lands and bodies of the next generations.
There was nothing much left to them, all still young souls.
He sat down amidst them, amidst old maps and drawings of changing landscapes, of the dusty vortex of time that cascaded around him like dust caught in sunlight, and wondered about theory. It was hard to tell them all apart, like leaves of papers most were blank, some frayed at the edges, while the most complicated ones had been nearly burnt down, tiny wicks of life still glowing in the remains. They never scattered. It was his job, to look over, to focus on the beginnings and the ends and to follow the cycles that the rest of the world was written into. Threads of sap and old bark he connected, sewed in the glowing strings of light, and let the souls of the books connect with each other, seeing the faint representation of one universal collective soul, and wondering if nirvana existed in the moments between the pages.
He knew, as he always did, that it would fall apart like stardust and the wind would empty it out into the sky.
On the days that he ran, a flickering wisp of a shadow, he felt the world rise with him, the axis slowly turning the long hands of his clock, twisting him around, keeping him just on the outside of the pattern, and still tethered. There were days he remembered memories he never had, lives he’s never seen, with the world blazed in fire and sunlight, and he yearned for naught.
/W.I.P
The world went on.
Somewhere beyond, as he gathered leaves and collected the sap, salvaged rainwater and listened to the trees, he felt all the bright moments of life wisp around, some warring with one another, others in a symphony of fire, and the whole sky of them, falling and cascading as new stars and dead light. He could feel the aged spirits of the mountain gods, he knew of their coming and goings as the land decided their masters, century and century again, giving rise, testing out new and old patterns, evolution circling all around themselves. It had been long, but the world spun with a certainty of constants, and he could see the bulking humanoid shapes slowly losing their hairy bodies, their spines become stronger, rigid. He could see it in the deaths of trees, multiplying. There had been times when he had begun to fear the changes, sense its oncoming, the inevitable collision, that sudden and roaring -
that unpredictable end.
His job had always been simple, his one of many similar. He had, over the centuries, simply kept collecting the leaves that fell from the human camps, the villages and tribes, their empire, and the eventual human metropolis. He had walked past fields of leaves all covered in sap, filled with empty rements and trinkets from various lands scattering the areas. Him, in his curiosity, had ended up with a rather large gallery. The work, instead, gave insight to the other questions that he dreamt up stories for. Vials of sap, all holding together manuscripts of dozens of leaves, each life glittering in the process, and then to return them all, as much as could be done, into the lands and bodies of the next generations.
There was nothing much left to them, all still young souls.
He sat down amidst them, amidst old maps and drawings of changing landscapes, of the dusty vortex of time that cascaded around him like dust caught in sunlight, and wondered about theory. It was hard to tell them all apart, like leaves of papers most were blank, some frayed at the edges, while the most complicated ones had been nearly burnt down, tiny wicks of life still glowing in the remains. They never scattered. It was his job, to look over, to focus on the beginnings and the ends and to follow the cycles that the rest of the world was written into. Threads of sap and old bark he connected, sewed in the glowing strings of light, and let the souls of the books connect with each other, seeing the faint representation of one universal collective soul, and wondering if nirvana existed in the moments between the pages.
He knew, as he always did, that it would fall apart like stardust and the wind would empty it out into the sky.
On the days that he ran, a flickering wisp of a shadow, he felt the world rise with him, the axis slowly turning the long hands of his clock, twisting him around, keeping him just on the outside of the pattern, and still tethered. There were days he remembered memories he never had, lives he’s never seen, with the world blazed in fire and sunlight, and he yearned for naught.
/W.I.P
Pet Treasure
Blue Delicate Bird Feeder
Aqua Esther
Amber
Iron Lock Picks
Delicate Gold Feather Trinket
Twinkling Glade Illumis Cocktail
The Skeleton Vase
The Skeleton Vase
Jeweled Neela Vesnali Egg
Fossil
Poppy Pixie Puppet
Loose Screws
Elegant Flower Cage