Don't Agree to Fairy Trades

It was a vision.

Avalon stood like a painted moon; her silver shadows cusping bright blues, purples and greens with the cool vibrancy of a masters palette. Boats spun in delicate sugar white glass cut the water and moved with white robbed, lithe limbed occupants. Women with sharp angled cheek bones and copper to gold eyes stood peering out into the water. Looking into the onlooker; inviting with sly subtle smiles and open palms. The men leaned or stood with their armor in heaps and their weapons sleeping unsheathed. Suffusing the shore was a glow which emanated from the inhabitants. A soft ghost light nuzzling each shadow and fall of silk.

The spinning pinwheel of death appeared over the water and the screen froze completely. As Mark watched the supposedly un-crash-able device devour his art final he began to weep.

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