She was hungry, she was lonely, scared.

Abused, misused, misunderstood. She fed on conflict. She linked events in chains, smithing them with the hammer of grammar, the pliers of syntax, shaping them with the anvil of semantics. She gave birth to the narreme. A weapon to keep the wisdom of the humankind. History withheld in a form of a creature, imperfect, ever changing and yet epic, mystical, unpredictable.

The scythe may form out of different permutations. The elements and substances getting edgy, pointy, menacing. The link in the chain could be conceived chronologically, could be a mirror of reality. Past, present, and future. The links crawl, they squirm mutating the essence of the invention.

The time collapsed and disappeared, reorganising itself to become more deadly. The detail of the goldsmithing was paralyzing if looked closely. The artistry was striking, the metal would fold and bind in a non-euclidean form, ready to mesmerize the victim. Intricated shapes were not necessary half of the time. Just a hard hit to obliterate the prey.

The weapon showed three things: A fractioned soul caught up in chaos, a setting pictured within and the creation itself just moving forward, advancing. She used the arm mercilessly, she dug deep into bodies, hearts, minds and livers. When cracking bones and smashing muscles, she created new worlds. She opened wounds into the vacuum, leading to other dimensions, shaping the reality like the creator gave shape before, different hands, different heat but same fire.

Her name was story.