She sat aloof, towering above, gazing down at her subjects as they made offerings to her. With a flick of her wrist, they could be dead; with a twitch of her eye, they could prosper. Her mood was as mercurial as ever.

The subjects chanted her name in reverence, but she grew bored. Yawning, she shook the mountains, stretching out her arms and legs as clouds snaked around her wrists like bracelets. She shut her eyes, and the stars began to twinkle.

Her dreams inspired the lives of men. She was their muse, their mother, their beautiful goddess.

As she slept, the world beneath her shifted and swayed with her every breath. Forests sprouted where her fingers grazed the earth, rivers carved new paths where her tears had once fallen. Her slumbering form cast shadows that danced like specters over villages, and her sighs stirred the winds into tempestuous gales.

Her dreams wove tapestries of fate, threading the destinies of kings and peasants alike. In the realm of mortals, artists painted her visage, poets sang her praises, and builders constructed grand temples in her honor. Yet, in her dreams, she was alone—an eternal sentinel of creation, ever watchful, yet forever apart.