She had so many questions, so many thoughts, but she never spoke to the mages. They were so crude, so impatient and often loud. It didn't seem as though they could provide any answers, speak any wisdom. Why waste her time with them?

Eventually, a new thought occurred. Was she not already wasting time, wandering aimlessly? Perhaps she needed a purpose, a quest. To search out a dreamer who would resonate with her.

For the first time she began to pay more attention to her surroundings. It wasn't easy, the flow of time, the unending red sands, and the shifting skies all tried to pull her back into her previous lassitude. She persevered and saw that some of the other spirits seemed to be drawing dreamers. She experimented and found that she too could call mages, but she shied away, they weren't the one.

She modulated her thoughts, her call. It became a whisper, that few could hear. Still they came to her, and still she turned her back, they weren't right.

An eternity passed. There had been a few who were close, who she almost spoke to, but always there would be something wrong. Some dissonance. Would she ever fulfill her quest? Over time her call changed, sending less hope, more despair.

She sensed a dreamer approaching, answering her call. Was it the one? Under her scrutiny, the mage faded away. Some indeterminate time later, the dreamer reappeared. Only to fade again when she turned her attention to it. She waited, keeping her attention focused on the sky. She was aware of the dreamer's return, but kept her gaze away, allowing the dreamer to come closer, slowly, hesitantly.

Finally the mage spoke, and in that moment the spirit understood everything! They merged, then separated. The dreamer fell unconscious to the red sands, the spirit awoke.

The figure rose from the sand, to wander aimlessly. She wondered how she came to be.

“Do you have a riddle for me?” The Reversed Sphinx had asked - with a quiet voice that rumbled through your ears. You studied the cloth upon their body. The rough knotted chestpiece, the fabric knotted around their waist - stained by the perpetually blowing red sands. You stood in front of the spirit as they slowly began to smile. Not many had thought so deeply before, they told you. Most had blurted out a half-thought that was only loosely a riddle. Some had even used the riddle from the Sphinx fable.

They walked past you - grazing your hand and pulling it lightly - asking you to follow. You did as they asked and walked. First trailing behind and slowly moving to be beside them. The red sand, and the dark sky behind the flashes of colours, and the spirit moving quietly beside you.

“What happened to the mages that asked you those riddles?” You asked, matching the soft tone that The Reversed Sphinx had used.

“Is that your riddle for me?” They asked looking at you out of the corner of their eye, grazing your hand again. You shook your head, just a question you told them. They smiled once more.

“I did what Sphinx are known to do.” They said firmly. You and the Reversed Sphinx continued on, through the gently undulating dunes. The soft swish of fabrics and gentle creaking of leather the only sounds in the night. Your breathing soft and the Reversed Sphinx’s undetectable.

“Do you think me a monster?” The rumble of the Reversed Sphinx was deeper now, the question clear in their voice.

“Is that your riddle for me?” You answered cheekily, the Reversed Sphinx caught off guard and letting out a lilting laugh. They seemed to walk lighter beside you at the comment. The wind whipping through the dunes softened.

You wondered vaguely if there was a destination you were walking towards, if your time with them was almost over. You pushed the thought away and slowly moved your hand to brush against theirs again. Gently moving your fingers together and pressing against their palm. The leather of their arm wrap soft and supple in the warmth of your grip. Mages were raised on cradle songs warning of the dream-realm. Of the beauty and the danger. Stories of spirits and their quickly changing fancies, of the spirits whose interactions followed a script. You had been taught these too. You knew that trading riddles with a Sphinx, Reversed or not, was dependant on their fancy and the mages cunning. That many a mage had crossed paths with Sphinx kind and merely acknowledged them and declined to play - allowed to pass safely.

Those that they had dealt with had known the game. Had known the possible outcomes. Had lost the throw of the dice.

“I have no riddle for you, and I don’t think you have one for me -” you said to them as they gripped your hand tightly “but I do have a question for you.”

They gently came to a stop - holding your hand between the pair of you - and looked solemnly at you, their face losing it’s glow.

“When is a monster not a monster?”

They laugh like chiming bells and the glow returns, and then brightens, they sway gently towards you and pull you to walk again. The dunes seem to flatten as you look in the distance and you can make out some sort of oasis. Vague and far and seemingly impossible.

You lean gently into the Reversed Sphinx as you walk now, and they stroke their thumb along your hand playfully.

Mages were always warned of the spirits. Of their changeable fancies and the mages that are subject to them - those that waste their lives away for the love of a spirit.

Maybe you’ll be one of the lucky ones, you think. When is a monster not a monster?

Oh, when you love it.

(Borrowed a quote from a poem by Caitlyn Siehl)

"She walks in starlight in another world. It was just a dream." Quote borrowed from The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug.

This came true sooner than it should have. On her 17th birthday her father found out she had secretly been living as a girl, and in an act of hate struck her. She fell down the stairs and died in minutes from the resulting head injury. But true to the snake-spirit's word she returned as a spirit.

While at first she decided to seek vengeance she soon realized she would rather help than just hurt. While she does not have the power to save people from the same fate that befell her, she protects any trans kids she comes across from magic that would seek to harm them, and comforts them in their dreams, even if they are not a mage and not aware she is real. She has vowed to be a family to those who have been rejected or hurt by theirs.

So as a haven for outcasts, she appears as an outcast herself: a scrappy, feral street punk none would give the time of day to; a comforting presence to those who have been hurt by people well respected in society. She meets people in a rickety train car, full of light as it speeds through darkness, and for every person she helps she draws a new piece of graffiti to represent them. She carries little gifts in her hip pouch, candy or makeup or a pocket knife, just to make her visitors feel loved even though they cannot take the present back to the corporeal world. Part of her manifests as a snake, which she fondly refers to as her pet and has named Lucifer despite it just being a part of herself, in tribute to the spirit who saved her, and in reference to the bible story: listen to the snake. Freedom is better than being well behaved. Give ultimatums the finger and hit that big red button, and let society come crashing down.

She has many friends, dream mages who she gave solace to when they are children, who she got to watch grow up. She's protected some from wicked spells, gave life-saving information to others, and for most, was simply a friend they sorely needed. They all call her big sister. Transgender mages build shrines and leave tributes to her, usually in the form of graffiti, a little piece of revenge against a society who hurt her and them. A little show of misbehavior in her honor. Also common is shed snakeskin, roses, shorn locks of hair, empty syringes or pill bottles that once contained hormones, knives, little trans flags, and any representation of the shrine-maker's personal identity.

No words about her will ever be written formally. She is known through word of mouth and through stories in spray paint. Hate may have killed her, but love ensures she never dies.

I, however, am known as The Hollow Spirit. My pleasure comes from lingering in the dark. I am the one who creeps out of the shadows and fills every inch of your dreams with darkness. I take everything you value in your dreams; every memory and every positive thought, and I corrupt them to make you feel worthless and alone. To the other spirits, I am known as a silent entity as I don't directly cause someone to feel frightened. Instead, I slowly poison your dreams bit by bit until to you, it appears as if that darkness was there all along.

Perhaps you've already met me, and me telling all of this to you is nothing but a bad memory of my visit. Regardless, let me tell you this... You can't stop me. Many have tried and all that ever got them was imprisonment in The Realm of Dreams, wandering as lifeless entities flowing in between the dreams of the living. And once more, let this be known that I will continue my deeds and I will always be there. I will always be that little piece of darkness that you see out of the corner of your eye, leaking out to have a little visit...

His tongue darted across parched lips, tasting at the air, and he thought, Close. To speak as such aloud, however, would be to invite disaster from the rest of the fey spirits masquerading as gods, tempestuous as they ever had been toward other mages. He licked his lips again, adoring in that welcome scent. I can taste it. The familiar, dry flavor of bones.

He neared a scarlet dune, and there, faintly visible at its summit, awaited the spirit which he had sought for three years. On each occasion he had not yet been worthy to approach.

But tonight he had made the necessary sacrifices. Kinsmen laid to waste for corrupting the ancient teachings.

He trekked upward and found himself at last face to face with the hollowed skull of the Undying Reaper. Twin halos of jagged black iron hung affixed at the back of that perfectly bleached skull. Black iron ribs stood out from beneath the knotted white cloak trailing over the right arm and leg to the sandy floor. The bare left arm was nothing but calcified flesh, from which curved black claws awaited, and the glittering heart of a star worn like a man would bear a ring. Ancient iron plackart had grown into what flesh remained at the midriff, though the black loin-cloth and white hip-scarves flowed loosely.

Amara turned his sight once more upon the darkened void where a face should have waited. He sank to his knees and grinned as if maddened, for at last the words that he had practiced flowed across his tongue, "O' hallowed, revered necromancer! Great lord of the grave! Guide me in your ways, for I have paid the costs in blood and sin! Bless me, for I am the last child of the night!"

[font=Courier]Long have I waited for such a mage again,[/font] the Undying Reaper spoke with the voice of a sudden wind, billowing out the cloak it wore and ruffling Amara's hair. The left arm rose and placed those claws against his throat, and then they pressed forward, making five identical, tiny cuts, a wound that would have already scarred over by the time that he awoke.

[font=Courier]You have done well, Amara Modred. You shall serve as my vassal, as your forefathers once have, before the purges. My virtues in the realm of man must be restored.[/font]

"There is no greater honor I could beg," Amara said.

[Font=Courier]Come, then. You must be taught again the secrets of death your kin have distorted.[/font]