credit: Hans Peter Kolb, neosurrealism.artdigitaldesign.com
The bells in my hair are made of crystal from the mountains of madness. They jingle my name for every step I take and they have already brought me to the foothills. Here the wind tastes of fear and the rocks all stink of loneliness, but further up is the zone of eternal twilight, where baby dragons play, and further still is where I will find my throne of thorns and nightshade.
When the shadows move behind my back I ignore them, but I pounce at them if they change their colours. Nothing will keep me from reaching the peak.
The fairies will welcome their true queen.
A Bolg? 