It can\'t be night already, can it? These were the words in Vivianne’s head as she sat back on her heels, and surveyed her work – briefly – before her eyes travelled upward, looking into the inky blackness that shrouded the park, over the railing surrounding the center of the well-lit gazebo, where she knelt.
Around her was a scene out of Norse mythology; the World Tree – a massive Ash, with branches that reached the sky, and roots that reached the center of the Earth – was it\'s center. Below the Tree coiled the World Serpent, coiled around a massive taproot, dripping it\'s venom into its treacherous father Loki\'s eyes, as his wife – a tiny figure on the edge of their stone island – wept. Above the world, nestled in the branches of the world-Tree, was Asgard, home of the Gods; a city of fire. Around the whole image, however, stretched the jaws of a wolf, whose red eyes were suns. This last was Fenrir, whose jaws would devour the world, whose coming was the coming of Ragnarok, and the end of all things.
The piece took up the entire floor of the gazebo, and was done entirely in chalk. The chalks were nicer – and more colorful – than those given to children, but chalk is chalk, and impermanent all the same. It was Vivianne’s favorite medium. Given this, the details were blurred, but the picture was the same – vivid and rich, a cornucopia of umbers, jades, and other jewel tones, accented by the stark white-gray of the World-Tree\'s bark, and the all-consuming reds, yellows, and oranges of the Wolf\'s burning eyes.
The artist was somewhat mythical, herself. A waif, a spirit, a faery – in her thin, fragile way, Vivianne was achingly beautiful. Pale blue eyes stared into the dark, round in her pale, angular face. Her hair hung to her waist in a fine curtain of pale gold, streaked with color where her long fingers had passed through it as she worked. Her back was straight, jerked out of its customary hunch by her sudden alertness. Her feet were bare – one missing its pinky toe – and also covered in chalk, poking out from the torn lace hem of her skirt.
Turning those crystalline eyes downwards to contemplate the complexity of her work, Vivianne could see how it could\'ve taken so long, but she still didn\'t quite believe it. Rubbing her eyes (and leaving green circles around them from her chalk-covered hands) she looked again, blinking at the darkness.
She had gotten there early, specifically to avoid this. She\'d arrived at about six in the morning, and set to work. The sky threatened rain, so people stayed away from the park – though the clouds still had yet to loose their fury – and she was left alone to her work. The dull light had faded, and she hadn\'t noticed when the bright fluorescent security lights hidden in the eaves of the room-sized structure had replaced the weak sun.
Unsure of what to do next – though she knew Rook couldn\'t be too far – Vivianne sat in the middle of her pool of artificial light – on her island in the sea of encroaching dark, the red suns of the Destroyer\'s eyes provided little comfort.
