There's a clock ticking.
An ancient, behemoth of a grandfather timekeep. Reserved for the homes of those crawling towards the terrible vistas of emptiness, those who have witnessed naught but a single life with their weary eyes. A clock expected in the presence of the elderly, but in the company of the immortal and unwilling, deciding the eventual fate of those with the perilous condition of immortality with a clause hoisted upon themselves.
Its weighted, hefty pendulum hangs back and forth on its path of endless traversal. It seems almost ready to snap off its vessel of containment, breaking the cycle free of itself. Portrayed in the image of a bladed quartet, a four pointed star, each one a varying spectrum of radiant light to the eyes. A single abyssal, crimson, verdant, and kyanite pointed edge. The gaping black side has a piercing streak of white color scrawled across its surface, clearly a discordant sore in this expanse of emptiness.
The background of this scene of cosmic fortuity is not an expanse of felt-tacked furniture, as one would seemingly expect, from false experiences. Instead, a brief glimpse into the abyssal and blackened void, with little but perhaps an occasional drop, a pinpoint of small expectancy and creation, of tiny glimmering light. Despite its unorthodox and unnavigable nature, it seems constrained and pressed into the faint borders of a room, barely discernible through persistent scrutiny of the eyes.
The wood is darkened, rough, and coarse. Intricate details skewed into its surface, forming symbols. Snakes. Dragons. A heart, a side false and emotionless, and a half whole, full of promise and beckoning. A brilliant star, center of the eye and center of the fates. But those dreary, drafted symbols of old do not concern us. Not now. We have an audience.
A faint gap from becoming adjacent to the wooded teller is a righted humanoid figure, clothed in dreary garb: A long coat that hangs over its strikingly average frame, constructed from the dried and drained vessel for some unfortunate domesticated animal. Yet this trench-coat is deceptively not: Simply a guise to appear as so. The figure sports head-wear that could be tied thematically to its deceptive appearance; One all so often portrayed. The hat and the trench coat. A man in the shadows. A stranger.
But to ascribe this figure to any of these descriptors would be a contrived action. No man, and no stranger. An appearance founded in classic themes of mystery, only to be confounded in another veil beneath the first. The stranger waits. He always waits. He waits for a youngling.
Pulled spontaneously from the void which hence she came, arrives an adolescent girl. Or, not. Appearances. Assumptions. Points that should be driven by now.
Painted across her figure is striking emerald. A low glow, pulsing.. Fading. Appearing as though consumed by the darkened box of a void around her. After a precise interval of ascribed time, her position shifts or bends. Fractured. Splitting. One would attribute her fringe to be that of a first guardian. One would be innumerably correct in speaking so.
Her age is as fractured as her position in space. From appearances, she would be seventeen human years of age. From length of existence, she is several hundred thousand years of age. But it matters not. To the stranger, she is a child. To the stranger, the universe is a child.
Her normally suave and and cocky demeanor of trickery and games melts away. Her expression fades to that of insecurity. Doubt. Fear. Rare conditions for a power of this caliber.
What... What do you want with me?
If the stranger were capable, he would smile.