The slender portrait above was drawn by Nymphae, of Nymphae, and is copyrighted.

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The enchanting portrait above was drawn by Nymphae herself and is copyrighted..

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As our lives are so vast, so detailed and so very intense, all can not be told in one tale.  Some will write only of their far past, some of their present.  Nymphae has chosen to tell of herself in a detailed chronicle.  As more of her past is put on parchment and made available, it will be presented here.

Prologue to “Nymphae’s Chronicle” 

Searching Through a Fallen House of Thespians

The fractured colonnade welcomes you warily as you make you way over the crumbled limestone steps leading up to the peristyle of the theatre.  You shift your eyes upwards to glance about at the near faceless sculptures, their beauty lost forever in the rubble at your feet.

The flat darkness beyond the archway slowly configures into shapes as your eyes slowly begin to adjust.  Through the low archway you make you way down one of the aisles, once masterfully chiseled, now only strewn with a myriad of torn velvet scraps and burnt pieces of coal.  Tiny specs of ash drift past your eyes as your nostrils inhale the faded scent of mildew seeping through the walls.

A dank breeze feebly stirs your clothing as you wander down along the far wall of chipped buttresses.  Empty sconces, once proudly holding lit torches, now hang lifelessly on the walls as the cold moon offers the only source of light through the splintered rotunda.  The hairs on your forearms threaten to stand as you hear the shrill cry of a raven, its wings hastily flapping past you.

You instinctively duck your head and step backwards through a ruined velvet curtain into a small room.  You squint your eyes to let them adjust to the neglected darkness of the moon’s pale blue light, the velvet curtain its farthest barrier.  Feeling around with the tips of your fingers, you assume that you are in the actor’s quarters from the cold brass racks under your palms and discarded costumes beneath your feet.

Old playbills chip apart in your fingertips while you continue to roam around.  Toppled over footstools and desks ensure your agility as you almost have to hop over each one.

Through your peripheral vision you catch a surprisingly resplendent frame over your left shoulder.  A single ray on moonlight creates an azure spotlight on it as it still hangs on the far wall.  As you nearly stumble over a broken torch to make you way over to it, you catch a glimpse of the shredded canvas inside the flawless frame.

You turn your head to the lacerated portrait facing your direction.  The portion of the portrait still left intact is a twinkling, kohl-lined violet eye gazing back at you.

As you fight for steadiness in your chilled fingers, you pull up the torn fragments of the painting to see the completeness of a woman’s face.

Locked in her eternal gaze, your eyes run over the flawless contours of her beguiling features.  Having only seen one eye at first, the heliotrope pair bore into yours as their richly detailed orbs dare to reflect the broken surroundings.  You are not sure if it is from artistic skill or the overwhelming beauty of her face, but you sense a hint of emotional intelligence captured in her face.

Long, slender silver brows hover over her eyes with a protective visage.  They alone mark the contrast of the Egyptian kohl.  A lean nose directs your eyes southwards to lips fashioned like Cupid’s bow.  Her mauve-dabbed mouth is parted slightly to reveal teeth that almost reflect the silvery brightness of her hair.  The curls cascade down over her shoulders that are set back causing a slight lift of her chin.  Regal, almost.

Suddenly you feel a glassy coldness on your eyes as you begin to blink rapidly, having obviously forgotten to do so.  Tilting your head to the side with narrowed eyes, you slowly retreat from the frame, you fingers releasing the beauteous fragments of canvas.

As you rest your fingers on the lower edge of the frame, you feel tempted to rescue it from the dank recesses of this dismal room trapped in the concluded act of the theatre.

Should you steal from this theatre the only glint of beauty left in it, or shall you leave it here out of respect to those who set it here?  Can the portrait still be restored to her once lovely flawlessness?  If so, that means to take it from here.  If so, that means to desecrate the artistry of those who chose to leave it here.  If left here, will the portrait itself not be condemned to suffer the aging toils as the rest of her theatre?  If left here, will she be subject to the rueful curse that has taken over her surroundings?

You stand there, hands now limp at your sides, as you stare into the one eye that can still peer back at you.  The thickness in your throat is heightened by the thick beating in your chest, your breathing coming out in ragged puffs of mist in front of your face.  Your mind reels as it ponders over the possibilities over the face’s destiny….

*** How shall this end? ***