At Hui-ch'i's peak, in a humble abode 'twixt bamboo thicket, a red edge is dyed in ink, blade pointed at a scroll. The hills range lofty, river water ceaseless, nature in all its colors, vegetation in all its fragrance. She gazes afar to the ends of the vista; she brandishes blade and splashes ink. Clear black washes ranges, pine soot works jade branches, dry brush masses steep heights, pallid shadow forms hazed clouds. A painting complete, the blade stowed away. In careful scrutiny years later, Dusk gives a light sigh. The mist-drizzled scenery has lost all shade; only white left on this scroll laid bare. Hui-ch'i's vistas, painted through a million's times. Winter cedes and spring comes in with blooms and trees profuse; down from Heaven sable stone descends in alien clumps; opened mounts and given roads do Heaven's work in whole; now visits another year of celebration's hour. She sees then sees again; paints then paints again. Is tired; is loath. Let this brush travel its own way, then. ...... When Dusk snaps out of it, she finds a small being on her parchment. Though wreathed in soot and ink, held prideful as prominence, it is at a proper look still but a youngling. And this youngling looks at Dusk in turn. The brush is no brush, the ink no ink, the scroll no scroll. All formed things, false. But that animacy, that spiritful will, gives some ever-so-slight joy to Dusk. She suddenly feels a little of her mood return. Half a day later, the small being is lively across the wealth of her canvas. 'That old idiot would have even more pointless words for me if he saw me brushing life out of nothing.' 'But still...' 'The way this realm has no bearing on how you are, I suppose that's a little interesting.' 'No place of place amidst high mounts or waters far; no matter to me free amidst the human realm.' 'That's it.' 'I think I'll call you 'Free.''