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Hands—
Anticipating, confident—hands trembling with the power of undiscovered stories grasp the scepter with which to rule new worlds.
Hands—
Hands that draw from veins that bleed ink grasp the scepter that bleeds its master’s lifeblood.
Hands—
Long, nimble fingers cradle their quill—hands lower pen to parchment, kissing, unified in creation.
Hands—
Fingers once created, now create—hands that breathe life with a single word, and summon death with less of the same.
Hands—
Brandishing a weapon of creation—hands that rewrite history, and plot Future’s path; that humble the highest king and enrich the basest beggar’s soul.
Hands—
Humble and proud—steady fingers repose their scepter and stow the bleeding parchment for another time, another world, another chapter, another story.





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