To live adrift, fighting an ongoing battle with temporal displacement kept her swimming through time. A life grounded to callous certitude, drowning on land and being robbed of names, core memories, and prediction to strangers. The disease often given to elders; temporary spells causing redirect and second opinions that varied from moments prior were less funny whenever watching one’s own family. How often had she landed in moments of terror or indescribable anguish?

Artemis had fallen victim to a game played by wicked and unruly children, the game of warring. Lethal, unforgivable, and doused in epic struggle. Her statued posture indicated that a youthful body began to molder under the laws of manipulated time: plastered in a state of determination, and realizing that luck had finally ran out. A single breath without discomfort was worth the sacrifice the humanity of such tortured anguish.

The task of losing wasn’t to be unexpected, probabilities had garnered against her favors more often than not. Artemis stood at attention between a hallway and a door on far end left; gazing down at a single leaflet and weeping in her search for answers. Five deathly clovers, representing the unlucky lily pads of the five young souls that had disappeared into a forest...seeking boyish adventure and casing trophies to commemorate their mischief. Artemis wept at the sight of a band of loving fathers, "dominated by pride", as they held ups illustrations and signs. Parents holding epitaph in torches aflame with an inextinguishable worry for the "lost children" facing weather conditions without proper clothing. The families would endure a government cover-up, suspicion tearing up the integrity of its entire Nation, along with its immaculate wood flooring. The arbitrary rules of a game of War had left Artemis lost in dazed nightmare: attempting to collect the rules of an arbitrary game that was contained in the waves of static hiding beneath her Golden Fleece.

She was the perfect candidate for an obscure casting, set with the bare parameters of expectations given to a troubled child gifted a story without a cage of time. Artemis was born ready to defend the innocent, those cast as runaways instead of missing or protected only by public outcry. She had heard the parents speak first hand, and followed them through eternity to avenge their frustrations. Given a good story interpretation and a vision, Artemis could find the exact area of an obscure part of the woods...weeping over the graves of five boys, slaughtered and cuffed in a shallow grave. Her body was sickened by visions and memories vivid in color. A handful of men cried and pleaded for the fact that their sons were "good boys", and incapable of just disappearing. The narration of grief stricken moments lay burrowed in the heart of the reader. The role of a kingly title meant that she were a gladiator with a cause, and an ever-swaying love for Justice. She set afoot on a journey of self discovery and a hunt of a Mechanical Boar, running rampant and causing immeasurable anguish.

Artemis was on the trail of assisting with the helpless souls, the children forgotten for whatever reason. She couldn’t seek out the bodies of lost children themselves, due to a body of separating waters and time. Instead she offered a branch of disparaging: the option of flag-setting a search team to scour no further than four kilometers from a military base housing State-bought weapons. She felt obligation to return and craft new details into the intricate fabric of her tapestry, if only to change the minds of a few opinions or lay path to rabbit holes left overlooked. Her distrust of people came with the crucial understanding of chance and problematic reasoning. The woes of a leader born female, a stranger left in the cold to walk alongside strangers in silence. She suffered from the pressures of living with title prodigy, casually bored in her intellectual anguish.

It was quite the fanciful place for a rendezvous: to be born at the late nineteen hundreds. It was chaotic and splashed in neon and clashing of personalities. The capsule of time written into the fabric of an ever expanding universe that longed to mature, evolve, and end conflict with ones understanding of self. Artemis was born, her arrival soon announced in public squares. The written and spoken word of such an abrupt introduction of calling an infant Victim A. The misuse of such a letter bred a spark into an ancient device, longing to churn and moan with the consistent feeding of taboo information. An cursed device masking as a sundial of sorts, spewing clock-worked information that revolved around perfect timing. She often waited by this shore surrounded by a handful of bridges, lost in the dystopian daydreams of a tortured artist of words and threads of fantastical daydreams. The synchronicity of a small urban population was filled with those deprived of vitamin D and non-racially aware historians trickled over the eclectic range of Cascading mountains in droves. They were easy to spot, unaware of their modalities to geography meant rights to extra complaints without ridicule or anguish.

Her disparity was chemically disarmed: sharpened, as the crisp morning air held tightly within her upper chest. "At least its not raining." A strange way to start a day standing in a line of strangers. She had longed to break free of the chains that imprisoned her "heathen soul" to the land of her ancestors. Her pathos was found only in historical books, and the endless accounts where strangers accused her of creating significant turmoil. She was a famed sore loser, and Genocide had left a bowed crown; admitted defeat for an entire Nation of Peoples. It was unchallenged, unchangeable, and undeniable the more time passed. They had lost everything. This was the bare structure for a story designed to describe the dangers of "shortcomings", and "precised slights", and the anomaly in circumstances...held as a compendium in the famed arc’d weapon: the Golden Fleece.

Artemis had awoken; chained to a wall, staring head on towards a beast named Timmy. He declared himself innocent, maneuvering a leather belt in his hand with a cathartic grin on his stupid face. He was found guilty for malingering by countless professionals, and the evils committed at his own hand were ruled brutality in sickness that exceeded cognitive defect. Artemis wanted to cage the beast if only for a short period of time, proving that the man was lazy in building up his mask of lies once and for all. She guided herself into a simulation, blindly avoiding the presence of such monsters by intuition and scripting down her encounters. The task of patience was often rewarded to the mechanic able to weave and tighten the threads of fate within a unearthed Golden Fleece.

Artemis was cursed with nightmares of reliving memories of her recent elders, pasting the faces of men like Timmy over the once blank faces of the enemies forgotten. Her village had been burnt to the ground by savage invaders, leaving her swaying wearily in the rhythm of softened doddery madness. The culture of a party named Donners had been passed down through oral warnings: explaining their insatiable need to devour fresh human meat...even after the snow had melted and the pass was cleared for safe travel. The toilsome changes in cultural practices had thrown up a wall that vastly relied upon communication errors to excuse their embarrassment in confusion and patriotic anguish.

She had dreams of walking through twenty-seven second increments spliced into to scenes: exigent in the ultimate quest of productivity. Pure and true madness. Endless stories, dripped from her fingertips, the endless classic of the time before a woman had been renamed as a wife: she felt tasked with poetic nonsense that could entertain the shortest of attentions. Artemis was sent to entertain a lost Athena with a story of epic woes. Hella woes. The sisters had agreed to participating in a tournament of wits, to hunt a Mechanical Boar and dismantle an invisible machine, ostensibly powered by mystery. Athena had glared openly at her younger siblings clapping in excitement to such a stupid machine as though she had always wanted one. The time machine two thousand was all Artemis could whisper in her elated awe to such a rare device. It was a simulation that explored the depths of humanism, an aphorism of will and trials of undeserving anguish.

She stood in lock with a invisible cast and crew capturing her daydreams and truths. Artemis had reported the taunting of whispering of unseen situations to professionals, and told it where ghosts of trauma. She hid away, unable to find arid in a false world filled with insincere situations. Artemis had walked away from a sibling suffering from malady in memory issues that seemed to irremediably take into affect at an astoundingly young age. The world had lured her from a comfy cave of a home, seeking inspiration for a gold-lined tapestry contest. The longing to be admired, unwed, and free to day dream had led to the return of an unusual boy, a stranger, blind to the massive kernels laying trail and causing disturbances and leading to her front door. A fitting story always had a scrupulous Prince traveling the world beside his wild counterparts, each tailing in charm, holding pristine glass skin, flouncing hair and the humorous inability to measure a fight. Artemis had stitched together a base-line dimension to stand as stone, or token meant to serves as a key for a. The only jettison for such a wandering would involve Methusela, a time machine, and probably a Sphinx laying over a mystical blanket nicknamed as the Golden Fleece.

Artemis began carving her own legacy upon a cave wall: sprinting towards her own destiny, and knowing full-and-well...her life was to be consumed by the black and white words that freed her mind from the purgatory of seasonal depression. There was no pre-paved trail for those thrown into wealth or fame, so she attempted to brace her footing: having learned the posthumous lessons given by the Curse of the Osage Peoples. Artemis held close a jar of sanguine tears, distributing them sparsely along her paved trail of trauma, agon, and anguish.

Unlike those before her, Artemis moved with profound impetuosity past preconceived assumptions in epigentics and the noxious culture-centric as vices up for debate. Their linage was everyone’s business. Dynamism was confined to prioritize blood quantum status over romantics. They were locked into a set allowance in time and history, having broken it in half by accident on their trek of tears. The time before Race in Theory, and the birth of the word Genocide. The elderly often spoke about her lack of offspring, as though it somehow hindered her success: reasons why Artemis began grunting or agreeing with half-hearted fillers to pass by the time and end the cultural anguish.

Artemis had taken to arms: defending the tales of women untethered to the expectation of no man, painting a colorful mural confessing love and announcing a romanticized parable of person to place. Artemis had always stumbled into the scene of an undecidable rainy day. A half-alive person, often looking half dead, drifting through two worlds: longing only for a place to call home. Stacks of endless paper were to be topped off at the interception of Artemis and famous baby lovingly named G. The mighty human that took down the pathetically woeful Siren named Lucy. Time would be framed by mystery, and confounded to the time before algorithms had cemented each citizen in their moments of private anguish.

She was famed for having her head in a book, unable to disconfirm her theory of being labeled a character to a Truman experiment. No one could stop her from sipping from a chalice of festive warmth and coziness. Such bliss was found with the scented hug of fruity and oak undertones. It was matched by those small comforts found with a slick caffeinated black liquids. Artemis was left losing in a race powered by manual labor, liquids and the disbelief of a life lived without dire financial anguish.

Her words were without the crude intentions or greedy focus...unlike those, found in the Tribe that had knelt to the unending demands set by their amateur republic. Much like her sovereignty, independence required one to rip their own heart. Artemis belonged nowhere. She had fled from the Salish Sea and their opportunities, for the sake of her own sanity...afraid that she may confuse the difference between living a life of success, and a life of purpose mirroring their Tribal community. Artemis had been gifted with the right to speak freely, and held the goal of obtaining intergenerational wealth with the skill of easing disinformation. Her life had been dedicated to harvesting her memories, and garnering the attention of all those around the world...through a series of tetchy verbal poems that were mined. and distributed far-and-wide. All she required was life, and the assistance of a gifted mechanism she called her "Golden Fleece".

She had awoken once more in a dream: blinking heavily having seen those that colonized the land annihilating her family with a second sweep, or "double-tap" if you prefer the formal wording. The invaders intentionally raped the women and children until they were worn down and dried up. They called her family "SQUAWS": modernizing the word for cunt...laughing with jubilant, nocuous, and unapologetic expressions. Their lust for sexual violence finally began to concave inwards, and their petulant demeanor toppled over through generations of families: until they openly took hobby in incest, and habitual rape. Corruption and distrust began to bleed through the pages, weighed by the beholder. The statistics began to pile up, until the citizens began to demand proper consensus and reparations for their tax-funded anguish.

The local citizens had conjured the dismissive spell of stating "I wanted to." beneath their breath, and had the audacity to judge a beast named Issei. Their excuses mirrored one another in depravity. Their love of war resulted in a boy named Brock to be born, and Artemis had armed herself with acrimonious rage, to justly capture the dour legacy in colors worthy of such an ugly individual. The runty beast was endlessly caught red-handed, mid-rape in all dimensions: solely responsible for Turner-ing the generation into a new era of darkness, crawling with Elliots whining of his treacherous fate in dying a virgin. He was forever cast in the role of a local poster boy, representing all that is privileged, awful, vulgar and horrendous in nature. The faces of such monsters would be recycled through time, reincarnated to be born with the same face over and over again. Changing their outfits to accommodate the time periods, but always having the same shitty personalities. They had once boasted of their craft in decimating everything they touched...searching for gold and longing for violent delights. Artemis knew that her words were too harsh for the little-bitch citizens to comprehend, and so she hid them away in a veiled and replicated piece of equipment that had been sought after since the beginning of mankind: a Golden Fleece.

Artemis set up camp in a local shop filled with liquid gold: the fuel of champions revived her tired mind, and expanded her palate to include teas and caffeinated beverages in gourds that traveled from lands far away. She sat tucked away on a busy corner and surrounded by loved vegetation, in a cafe that cared of her lack-of-tolerance for digest sugar compounds found in dairy. Artemis had seen a woman boost an entire localized economy with her words and imagination, and so she followed suit. She had ventured to a hole-in-the-wall business, and decided to elevate the status of family-owned places at home. Her path was not that of a White beast called an Elephant, but that of a Man dripping with Java. She had the plan of rebranding an entire city that was deemed dismal and unlivable, by raising it from ashes of hatred and discrimination with a handful poems crafted with surly rhetoric. Artemis was unapologetic in nature, and saddened that she was left with the responsibility to platform the citizens apathetic and pathetic lust for attention: a standard single eye, that captured their desperate love of temporary fame with evidence in encounter. Her dreams were filled with arguments and questions as to why the citizens went out of their way to capture her portrait in gold, and wondering why she couldn’t retrieve a static-filled apple that sat at the basin of her bottomless Golden Fleece.

Artemis sprinted towards her hard-earned fame: laughing that the citizens chose to hold virulent curses towards their elders and youth, as though time cared who said what. She had set a trap that traded her own portraits for the lives of all those they claimed to love: knowing the citizens loved stalking and judging a stranger. She found it odd that they’d spend their day hunting a her, asking one another if they felt like accosting a woman they had never met: instead of caring for their elders or raising their own children. She watched impatiently, as women grew in innocent facades, attempting to harvest the attention of a suitor that followed Artemis around. She began to crack her neck from side-to-side, glaring, and flashing her archer finger in warning. Artemis was irascible whenever people attempted to deem her to be without situational awareness, and wondered how many men had observed their women, wives, or sisters...fluffing their feminine feathers, and pretending to be entirely different people for the sake of an audience of one man. Artemis began to sing to herself "I don’t know what to do...I got nothing left to lose...", Glaring at strangers was far easier than acknowledging their stupidity, and the details were often unburied in the endless stories she had dug up in the depths of her Golden Fleece.

Her words would eventually plague the citizens that were arrogant to the results of their actions: she had cursed their stolen portraits to a machine with appetito to devour variables, as fair trade to her suffering. It stole faces, names, and loved one’s through intent filled lightening. It would use its blind ruling to distribute proper suffering, conjuring death and illness without risks of extirpated biases provided by mortal errors. She called the machine Karma, knowing only that she held the single flame that ignited lost deposits of family curses. The machine only asked for the warmth of an impartial judge, an orphan gifted with a golden arrow burrowed in the tufts of overworked threads. Artemis knew still so little of the device, outside of the fact they’d hid it beneath a glimmering Golden Fleece.

Artemis held out plenty of tapestries, slowly pulling wadded knots over a single line to air dry the goods. She remained diligent to what was expected of her, avoiding eye contact with the citizens out of shame for the culture forever placed in the past. They could care less how much suffering lay upon the trail ahead, the amount of child abuse she had survived. The world always found new ways to prove it could care less about a person malnourished, raped, and beaten: serving evidence as to why Artemis smothered the charring ashes of her childhood anguish.

She relished the idea of solitude, knowing citizens may eventually seek out her journalistic skills with false pretenses: unable to corrupt, tamper or erase the sins they had cast at their own hands. Artemis had laughed in retort to the notion of bylines being amended without immense costs. It had been easier to hide away the depths of her understanding, than to grapple with their fitful privileged hobby in evading privacy. Artemis was the smartest person she knew, and she set out to prove it once and for all...by trapping the baleful citizens of the world in an archaic simulation called Earth. She programmed the game to disperse suicide and death with every single stolen portrait at will. It would be without a doubt that the algorithm would eventually pull a tallying system to asses their misdeeds and their known would would deliver the just Anguish.

Artemis had cracked a code in her dreams and found a way to craft iron-clad retribution in the form of Just sacrifice. With confident crossed arms, ink’d battle markings....she was a fallen Goddess left to nurture groveling mankind. The machine would putter and stew if ever forgotten: needing a flame to turn the coals. Artemis gathered strength in the still of night beginning preparations to torment the citizens at will, haunting their dreams and detaching their slumber with shared nightmares: sitting on them and stealing their prized restful hours. If she couldn’t sleep without torment...then neither would those participating in an on-site experiment on human will and controlled anguish.

She would awake to a half-hearted argument, dozing off even in her dreams. A man famed for delivering postal services, was serving platitudes and unsolicited advice, and clearing his throat to hide his wherewithal. He would roll along with his orders and constructive criticism, and she humored him by staying put...lady code. Her hair was untamable, her hunched back was growling against laughter that threatened the depths of every aching breath. Artemis had hidden the obscure details of her childhood out of convenience, knowing the world could care less that the its weight crashed upon her shoulders. Cursed to dance aside a beast called raging sciatica pain...forced to take a knee or prepare for the pep talks that were reserved for the underdogs of the world. Such stupidity was buried beneath the intentions of expecting danger in ones sleep. For whatever reason...children would stumble through her darkest edges of the untethered world with slight efforts, holding clues that indicated an eye had been covered by a jaded view that allowed her to walk in two worlds. It was a win-win situation for Artemis. They deserved every ounce and kilo of pain they had manifested, and it hadn’t been until recently that Artemis agreed with the rules of blind Justice that were churned and distributed within her Golden Fleece.

Artemis stood by wide-eyed and bored of the losers around her, watching as the world burned softly: the flames arose and swallowed the citizens whole. She had no sympathy for those that had crafted their lives around harassing her, recalling their mouths held ajar and teeth baring ill-manners. It was always awkward attempting to look past judgements of vanity as she observed citizens blatantly laughing in her direction: waving their hands like maniacs and turning their palms to the sky. Artemis was plenty-a-bored of the world, unaware that literacy skills were easily backed by character development and moral agency. Those around her had no understanding of truth in anguish.

She were a petite woman, left to witness the citizens as they drolled, dodged, dived, dipped and dogged with anticipation...desperate to enter a scene without scripts. Strange to the bystanders cast to accomidate a main character living in a fishbowl. Artemis re-lived this captured nightmare, and grew enervated by the endless slew of bland women that flocked far-and-wide to flaunt themselves in front of her invisible husband. Women often showed off their ability to emulate Artemis in a way that left her embarrased on their behalf. The citizens laughed and smiled at the echoes of her sexual assault: they obviously took vast joy in the fact she had been penetrated as an infant by a dead-eyed savage. The initial sin that bore a sequence of events the promoted the use of a media machine hidden away beneath the surface of the Golden Fleece.

She had found that insanity lay with those who avoid sleep. It dictated the true limits of man, herself included. She held daydreams of wearing a simple skirt flowing stiffly in the wind, a Traditional species of red leaves harvested only in high altitudes. The forever dry bark was perfect for a climate of fog and ocean breezes. Admiring each Redwood tree she passed with a light touch of her dainty hand: knowing that they were the only living organisms that had witnessed, and could confirm the lives of all those who’d she’d once lost. She placed them safely away in a tale meant to lay their legacy upright and intact beneath the blood drenched pages of a Golden Fleece.

The marvelous ruby bark of the forest now held ominous tones: each tree reminded her of the night of decimation. The trees were unscathed as witnesses to the atrocities of Genocide, their secret voices were hidden away for another day. The colonizing citizens had ransacked the entire coastal village without remorse, holding subterfuge to hospitality by actively slaughtering two out of every ten Indigenous Warriors. They gifted the feign of hope, purposefully telling one survivor to flee with warning to any other villages. Nothing screams domestic terrorism, like captives fleeing and the buy out of a traitor. and throwing empty riches upon the second. They had done this task in a strange language...foreign in tongue. Men with faces like "Chaz" had chased down the sprinting diplomat throughout time, forgetting the hunt of the Indigenous Warriors entirely. The lapse in objective cursed armies of men that had lost sight of the thrill they sought...each wanting to hold title over the exterminated at their own hand. Artemis was a product of such an inhumane existence...before the orphan sentence. She was one of the last surviving two hundred of her Tribe (The Yurok), they narrowly escaped the night of "God’s will", with the two hundred before a wave of disease hit. The evil spirits brought forth by these men was unspeakable: their skin sickly like the color of dead-fish bellies and their eyes void of all color; reflecting death itself. They slaughtered her family with purpose, and Artemis felt their condescending hatered in every muscle of her body. She had less than nothing to say when taken captive attempted to persuade her for the location of the key to the golden contents stowed away within the confines of the Golden Fleece.

She often avoided looking at the citizens, as a majority were obese in the bodily fat, or gluttonous in their need to be seen by her. They disgusted her on her better days, and annoyed her to the point of Herculean rage on her worst days. She felt them staring and gawking with their gaping mouths skew in laughter. The citizens were mocked by the world, but proud of the torment they threw upon her withering spine. Artemis couldn’t wait for the politicians to manufacture and distribute the plague they had been crafting in secret. The restricted capacity of their intellect had meant that the citizens would deserve the wave of death that was yet to be released into the world. Artemis had spent her life sprinting past their dull lives, returning to their timeline as an angel of death: their inability to heed her warnings had meant they were destined to fade into the darkness of the galaxy as worthless parasites: ignoring the legacy that was projected by the Golden Fleece.

A fire of unfathomable insecurity roared feverishly in her dreams: Artemis reminded herself of the last command she had been given by the wordy sister Athena...the single frantic instruction to run. She felt the expectations raise beyond all known the day prior; they were running from an enemy lacking all culpability. Her hands ached, tore up by the densely shelled bark. There along the shore: Artemis continually paced back and forth, moving between a tree without limits, and the soft sands and soils below. The world turned cruely and without sense of how she became maddened by grief…screaming aimlessly into the crashing waves that dared rebute her claims of anguish.

Artemis held herself responsible for the death of her village: the empath disease leaving her disabled until her spine transformed into a shoot of bamboo. It was a burden she carried from protecting the Golden Fleece: the curse of a Princess being held at weapon-point, and told to bow at the hand of the citizens. They were unaware and somehow aware, that the wave of their hand cast in her direction would leave her hunched over: the waves of gravity thrust upon her out of their lack of intelligence and blatant intentions. Even if she told them, they’d selfishly attend to the art of hunting a stranger, they were classless heathens in her eyes. Such were the rules and proximity of the game that predated all of mankind: the ugly reality manifested by the mere existence of the Golden Fleece.

She had lost her voice screaming into the void whilst the ocean continued drowning on: the body of "calm" water was preoccupied fulfilling an unknown agenda involving a whole lot of reckless clashing and roaring. Each night she would return to the shores, trying longingy to press out her pain: crying out each tear, as though she were reuniting lost family with the ocean by some sort of magic process. Tears enveloped into waves of introversion, swelling from deep within like the salted waters. Much like many men: her mind was needed more than her heart was valued. Silence meant the chance for disruption, a leathal wave of doubt spread softly over the sandy beaches. Time was never wavering, and no known medicine could cure, or even assist her mind to manage the sorrowful heaviness burrowed in the grains of everyday suicidal thoughts. There was no promised finish line for those longing only to walk the path of a good man. There was no true award, worthy of those left to balance their selfish anguish.

The only reward for this race was the title: Man of the Year. Survival of the fittest meant nothing to those programmed unfit to survive. She stumbled along the coast: losing balance and heading North...until her life was left at the mercy of a river that seemed endlessly dirty, unmanaged, and underappreciated by the strict choices of the citizens. Her love of the soggy Polis had only been matched by those standing overseas...wearing wool linens and complaining of their lack of second breakfast. They too, enjoyed complaining about things like light drizzles or hillsides occasionally icing over, and causing unmatched bolsterous comedic anguish.

She had wasted the prime of adult youth...making sarcastic predictions as to the weather: wondering why her bliss was found in saying her life was cloudy with the chance of depression. Artemis hid her words away in book: casting weapons of truthful aggression and aiming her sights on the citizens at last. The citizens lacked personality or cultured opinions with each model of grandma that came along, and the lack of nurture left the settlers with only the option to weaponize a code of honor...needing to force those of otherisms to their knees out of discomfort. The citizens had gotten lost along a trail of commerce, and taken a detour towards cheap fascism. Artemis stood tall, basking in fashions of repurposed linens and laughing that they were stupid enough to fall for the trickery of the Golden Fleece.

The details of time weren’t necessarily hers to worry about in the simulation, as Artemis had the body of a child withe acumen of a Warrior: having recently returned from combat. The lessons learned on the field had left her afraid of the minds and capabilities of those lovingly called neighbor. She felt indifferent to the pretentious dead-eyed savages. Artemis found their love of incest to be gross, but indicative of their "culture", in a way that overcompensated their communal lack of accomplishments. They had lost sight of their initial goal in erradication: woken up by tax-payers protecting their children from persecution and descrimination. They settled from North to West: missionaries without claim or stake. Their scrupulous history, buried beneath generations of religious spuriousness that ended with Artemis’s woolgathering and preperation in obsequies beneath the Golden Fleece.

It was none of her business to judge these heathens who continued to rape and murder women and children for sport: still, Artemis found their defensive veriest to be appaling and occassionally made it hard to resist stabbing an obsidian arrowhead into their throats at times. The sheer violence coarsing through her blood, almost outweighing her elucidation in ego. Her freedom was invaluable, without compromise, paramount to her success. To be clipped of one’s wings, or cast along a mountainside and forgotten had been the fate of so many Indigenous Warriors before her. Artemis was determined to surmount past their intergenerational trauma if only to bring balance to a community built upon true anguish.

How had it come to be that Artemis were in possession of such a sought after article? Artemis had pulled it from the edges of time and space, a pearlish shell with the title of gift without name. A commending well wish for a scholar yearning to mold a new legacy. Artemis had narrowly missed death, falling ill to a disease of selfishness, her resuscitation accidentally brought forth a flood of curiosity to wash over the soil. All corners of the land: held dancing petals and leaves, begging the woman for explination pleading for reasons as to her flucuate longing to romantisize such relentless anguish.

The trees would invite her out to play, swaying to her Will of Power, lending entropy to a bleak world. Artemis had painted away the nothingness by hand, gliding over memories of cherry wood instruments that complimented a deciduous season. She was often hysterical in laughter, clenching a smooth slender box, and holding arduous debate with the severed head of her dead husband that hid behind the crest of the poisonious apple. Artemis hid her talents, intentions, and craft in becoming a creator of worlds in a démodé fashion. Lugging around a sleek, but ancient Golden Fleece.

Artemis spent countless dreams, tracing the steps of her fallen ancestors: marveling up at the Redwoods, and attempting to find the words to warn those around her of a battle hedging over a mountain range. Her Tribe had found it best...to leave her to her anger in peace in these dreams, as she wandered around yelling orders at what appeared to be her slew of romantic partners laying beneath metal veil: they often joked on behalf of these poor men getting scolded. The idle nature in jokes flowed stronger than any river, "The history of man, begins with the fall of man!", one Warrior said to the other. The expecation in platitudes was one dimesional on their end, but Artemis heard their commentary and decided that such immature company was probably a mild form of anguish.

She’d often sigh in disbelief to such public showmanship. Artemis was cursed in having one-too-many suitors. Her version feminine charm had been passed down through observations of a sparkling Kind-Hearted Hunter: one who sang to the world until they stood in submission to her greatness. Artemis’s mirroring in charisma was rarity in adulation that turned into a form unwavering authenticity. Together, they were like two petite butterflies drifting excitedly through the winds of time. Artemis had turned back to observe a trail with no end in sight, almost having forgotten the train of thoughts having been drafted past steep ledges and rigid terrain. Artemis had abandoned the stages of song and dances: seeking approbation through the static-draped stages of endless stories and personal logs. She retired the wishful concurrence in fame by way of lights and stages had been retired to the bountiful audiences congrigating beneath the threads of the Golden Fleece.

Before the world had even started turning, Artemis had walked the soils alongside the Gods of Olympus. There fell a quarrel between rankings, affliction of opinions as what to do with a rogue star, they were locked in a hung jury and having forgotten the esse of natural disasters. Immortality came with the cost of discovery, a yearning for words, administrative goals, political agendas to fulfill purpose in existence. Artemis was always left to be the scientific professional brought to analyze envisaged materials for diplomatic dexterity of challenging situtions. A scientist left in a state of frustrated ekstasis to even the mere probability of cataclysmic anguish.

She had stood tabletop with forelorn vocals that held enough volume to convey that the only way to slow down a meandering star, was to add weight to its tail. She resorted to engineering a device just for the task, one of many magical items: crafting them from objects found only on living and breathing planets the traded scraps of a well-traveled crew. The objective of its creation was to build a loop of time, to be broken only by whatever dimension lay on the only other surviving timeline. The two simulations would topple over one another, holding truths of mirroring dimensions within the tufts of information cached within the Golden Fleece.

By the time she had sought the proper engineer to fashion the Golden Fleece and prefabricated enough tools for future use: the other Gods came to an agreement to otherwise mine the star for profit, deeming her efforts irrelvent in the span of a few moments. She re-explained the inevitible collision course: if challenged with another star remotely half-its size…the impact of such an event could decimate an entire galaxy. The board of shadowy figures lacked sagacious leadership, standing firm in silence or agreeing with her calculi in oppressed anguish.

The Gods only cared about themselves, and chose to continue with their bargaining: commited to pettifoggery, and holding the ethics of pirates obsessed with their booty. Even with a plan observation of a smaller star, following the wake of the destructive star seemed unable to break their spurious expectations. The indication of water on its surface and an island holding shape had meant the core held metals enough to condense the soil. To this...the Gods laughed and made fun of her active imagination, she was indefinatly alone with her intellectual anguish.

She offered to prove that life could exist on the star, stating that they needed to roll the clod of dirt within a shield threaded with polarity, preoccupying it with cultivating spin and manifesting an atmosphere. Artemis appointed herself as in charge of making the star slow down, and decided to help terraform it into a planet by methods of cultivation and culturing of bacteria’s to evolve immunity. She worked in the dark and silence to make a series of devices that held up the golden net that now surrounds the Earth, their dimension labeled as operation Golden Fleece.

This net harbored the ability to keep life safe to flourish, granting the planet continued to turn effortlessly in its chase of the massive star of destruction. A handful of stars were tested in the search to figure out which held water or metals. The tests required that she bombarded stars from all angles, having taken abrassive notes from A woman that refused to Letbe the innocent, relying soley on the rarity of "self-correcting". She needed the accumulation of clouds to prove that there was enough water on the planet to seek refuge. The discovery meant it were reliable exit plan, but those in charge vemently disagreed:redacting exploration efforts, and still undecided as to whether to call off the mining expedition. Artemis was unaware of the sketchy buyers that had invested in potential stock of unmined materials, their tempers ran short having seen a threat to the finilization of a sale. They found out what she had done to interfere in their bidding war, holding her family captive in a trance of thirty thousand years: they are forever chained to chairs held down by lassos containing Zues’s lighting. The Gods remain stuck asleep talking to one another, and conversing with no one all at once. Such was the cleaving prologue to the Odyssey of the Golden Fleece.

Artemis suffered from nightmares, memories of when they had once chained her to a wall, raping her endlessly. A facelesss man, called her husband had been forced to watch the pirates of time rape his wife in horror. Artemis had no way of conveying the diabolism in a simulation of a sibling of Bell. The desecration of person hood would result in Artemis casting a net of truth over the deepest ranges of the world. Such cursed existence would mean that Mary had finally been held accountable. Artemis had used a net to carve out an unbreakable charm, utilizing her skills granted as an endowed grace. She were always cast as a wounded butterfly, left drowning in a web meant only to hold imprisonment to malevolent souls. She was only there to host their permissive existence, a Muse with love of dancing and a tilting chin that pointed imperceptibly along an orchestra in repel of a sweet Lullaby. Artemis would begin a tale with an end to tragic for words, a world where poor Abby...had been born too wealthy for her own good. Held together by the will of an evil EIL and his ploy involving decapitation and his own mistress.

When her spirit remained unbroken and she fell into shamelessness: they thought the fear of uncontrollable circumstances would lay waste to her heart. They had been incorrect. The proof of a replicated experiment would help isolate a flare in a jealous hippocampus: Artemis had wanted to outline a piteous cry for help, and a plea for help. They’d eventually find out about the off-chance that Artemis had suffered from Dissociative Identity Disorder, and she had recalled when they ripped off each limb of her beloved. There was fragements of recollection, of theat time she had been forced to watch as strangers mutilated her husbands body, chopping him to small parts, eating his flesh as they wished. The helplessness proved to be too much for her: she became so enraged by what they had done...she gave birth to a new word: hate. With her once immeasurable rage: she began to power-up all the devices at once, commanding their aid, and reprogrammed them to retrieve his body from the darkness of a river flowing through Hades. The devices stored her orders and held the secondary operations secret: needing to accumulate enough voltage to move metals into any form that she needed. She’d invent an entire universe to turn back the hands of time, keeping herself hostage as a momentary arm of a primordial clock. Artemis was a God amongst mere men whenever plugged into the false environment of the Golden Fleece.

She fell into madness: held captive in a surreal Museum, left to await a man questioning the crux of their mission. It had been only one pirate that took awe in her indubtable spirit, a man of unlimited potential to change the wheel of time. He made sure that two pieces of her beloved were stored away for safekeeping: the only things able to bring her back from cusps of insanity. Artemis would need the aid of a few men and the hand of a stranger to perform an act of cuteness overload...an epic tale if you wish. Artemis had tended to a story to end all stories, a tale jammed to the brim with sarcastic overtones, relatable to only those married for many moons. She’d pull at an invisible collar as though needing to implicate a hole in heart, a life where a man had pulled each resounding stitch due to the fact that Artemis couldn’t stand the distance. The absence of her husband translated to a unpredicitible ode displaying true feminine anguish.

Artemis had aquired only the need of two poems, to flex her mood, display her understanding, and flaunt her speech. She promised listless wild dreams of a boy-ish man in tailored linens, seeking her out by way of aimless searching, or snarkily attempting to call a verbal duel of petty proportions in a room where his wife was semi-absent. The script formed around a husband always in search for her, unaware that he sought her out in cycles of REM. Artemis found the factor of prominent cute-ness to be enduring, and would manage to travel to a date long before the storms: forever vexatrous. Violent waves of death began to creep along the erroding shorelines, and nothing was safe to be taken for granted by all that had come to pass within their current universe of events found within the Golden Fleece.

One day: she ripped her rosey hands from the walls: a fun woman named Amy had brought strange quirks to light and lessened the wave of embarrament to stress induced illnesses. Artemis had hid her secrets away in a place that held the lost and forgotten. Historic past times of a feeble Democracy, shaped by the lack of caring and fired up by only promised discorse. Artemis had found the head of her husband standing behind a wall of static: having forgotten that there may be a plentitude. It was overwhelming to think of multiple canidates in suitor options, a slew of partial strangers that decided to throw their hat into the arena of a game filled with uncapped gore, and horrific sorrow. Artemis often compared the art of being "half-alive" to being born a Royal, thown into the universe to accomidate an agenda of empty promises and offered little in the way of self-motivation. An archayic Monarchy had tied Artemis to a timeline, the one in which a Princess was slain in the darkness. The normalization of homicide and perversion had bound the freyed edges of the grey world, and that of Hades. Humanisim as en experience was the only reward to be found within the tightly rolled threads of the Golden Fleece.

If such a brooding man had existed, it’d be a feat to pull his head from her lap. The artifact of a bust made up of slivers of sound and polarizing light, a dormant eye...seeking pixels to capture, and a buried static penis were the only clues and tools given to her. The mission was a very black-and-white in its pros and cons...all things considering. She felt embarrassed for talking about an unattached penis of her husband up until this point: without the man attached...having knowledge of such conversations. She hid it in plain sight: cast into a hub of loneliness. Despite the fact that her husband was a scientist and male, he didn’t seem to find penises to be as funny as she did. It gave her moderate joy, knowing this would be mortifying for him to learn...assuming that she figured out how to resemble him of course. She would often chuckle to herself and mumble disapproval that his penis was unhelpful: when it was not attached to the rest of him, remarking offhandedly that he already had a difficult time keeping his trousers on. Such a strange man, would always manage to be the first to come to mind. Artemis had been won over by his atlas-like strength, and abilities to uphold the clouds found within the legendary Golden Fleece.

Days would pass, and eventually Artemis found a boy-ish man that loved the Season of the Blossoms. The first man to claim worthiness in status of husband had forgotten her along the way. Her eye had wandered to stages of enless charisma where she became enamored with the mere idea of such an introduction to a man with a fluted voice. Artemis would giggle to herself at the detail in such scandalous daydreams. "Mr. Park" had no reason to show up and toss back his hair and throw hearts in her direction: he was too perfect for words. Artemis had wondered how long such girlish crushes would last, having spent endless nights being distracted by seven men that slowly conquered the lands beneath the artistic netting of the Golden Fleece.

She had dreams of shipwreck, a leader having lost control: the donnish upbringing worthless to any person sitting in a prized command throne. The stranded crew sought success in the form of modernity of a potential loop in time. The method of teleporation had allowed the science explorers to mingle and observe the evolution of palette. Here is where she came to be, mourned her lost love. In the oldest of ages, Artemis had found the courage to make one a single master key: a Golden Fleece.

The lore of a widow working away beneath dim lights and cleaning at all hours had come to fruition time and time again. Artemis spent her dreams, and the rest of her life building a device beneath the shadows of the Redwoods. Artemis relegated the gift of a hardened drive and original components to the man chasing her endlessly through dreams. She died of grief in that story, resorting to casting herself from the famed cliff known as the widows peak: falling up into the sky...as are the accounts of the elders. They were astounded by the defiance of the womans abilty to alter gravity, a topic of agreeing witnesses had decided to plaster the story beneath a cave. The laborous civility had been suggested over huckleberry picking in the foggy morning, and ammended by a war and archiving council by sunset. Long story short: that’s how the Yurok Tribe came to be the protector of the Golden Fleece.

Artemis had always loved that morbid-ass story growing up, but it would be years before she would sit down and learn the entirety of the story. Upon mastering Western language, she continued to abide by the orders to keep details of the Golden Fleece and its location: between her and the Tribes until the sky people returned. As time passed, she found it safest to transport the device in the carcus of a book. The book appeared to be an ordinary looking book, but it was lined with gold from the Klamath river: a weapon weilded by a worthy swordsman. Artemis was still unsure of the nuances and specifics about whether the device fueled the monsters and beasts within its webs, or if the invention of the Titans as indestructable but containable had meant those wandering through dimensions had discovered the purpose in invention of the Golden Fleece.

While their Southern Tribal neighbors had decided to bestow lakes with donation in precious metals to their "Gods", Artemis was busy sprinting North...far away from the settling citizens screaming “Eureka!” because they’d tenderd minute gold flakes settling along the straits and narrows of her river. How odd, that these dead-eyed savages appeared to her in passing; she had spent enough time observing them perch in groups to partake in drinking poison: falling ill to the curses of Hera and her pathetic empty bottle. The citizens would destroy and rape whenever they drank the poison of her bottled rage, and in turn their hair began to fall out over time. Genetic bailing out on the celebration generations later. She watched quietly from the shore as they left the riversides in flocks…bored of the scavenger hunt they’d given up everything for. Unable to manifest a destiny in a timely manner that understood the restrictions in medicine at the time. She came to the same spot where the river meets the ocean and waited patiently for the Warriors of the sky (the forgotten Gods), as to assist her with the last commands on what to do with the cursed Golden Fleece.

She found refuge in a small metropolitan village that was filled an abundance of mechanical lights that held competition in a bleak night sky. She kept walking until one day she came across a dreary place, the soggiest of places: where it seemed to rain whenever she was near a large basin that lay divided by a dirty river. The moody weather and greenery gave her home a skirted yard of mountain ranges cursed with nostalgic winds. Artemis was caged in a trance of optimism and visual stimulation, sprinting through time and all that remained hidden away within the Golden Fleece.

She started with asking those living in the rain for help: seeking specifications on how to read the lost language known as binary. The Yurok had such language hidden away in caves and carved on story sticks. Artemis opened door after door, betting it all on herself: stumbling into halls filled with overpriced lectures and pretentious professors....cursed to drown in self-doubt until the worlds entire banking system ran dry. She was left with only the option to take a loan from beast named Sally. The debilitating pressure that trailed along as detatched assumptions from winning a bet, had set her on a path of self-destruction that others may deem unproblimatic. That particular canoe of woes was jammed packed with other bright minds searchin for validation for their discipline in scholastic anguish.

Artemis had accepted a life of loneliness...until one day, she met a strange man with one volume, a bolstering tone. Artemis had met him in pursuit of a career in performance, and admired his role as a leader among Vikings. This term isn’t commonly used, a relic mythos in a time of beasts and heroes. Her cultural stories had depicted chunks of history, given orally as lessons, and the pluasibility of those stories were said to often repeat in ripples of reoccurance. The laps of choice created meetings that followed the laws of time: simply mixing-and-matching the probability that the same faces and voices sought each other out in the solitude of dreams. Their compiled dreams existed as a quasi base-dimension, and occasionally served as primary data that imprisioned the souls of the dead. Those in pergatory could wander through memories and spoken words: blocked from ever engaging with primary characters in a simulated universe entraped within the walls of the Golden Fleece.

Artemis had admired the taled of battles, speculating as to what argument arose from the battlefield where the Indigenous Warriors had held the lines of territory, and defeated a band of bearded men known as Vikings. There had been a tale of a wife with a wandering eye for men with eyes as blue as the sky. She couldn’t seem to find the traits of rugid masculinity, and viciousness in the slender man that barked orders with the rising sun. She began to secretly question if he was really a Viking and gifted him with rebutes of endless glares and laughter. She observed him quizzically and remained doubtful of his status as a Viking; he seemed dangerously impartial to social injustice, and often chose to stare downward at his feet and occassionaly rocked a limp in strides of fleeting anguish.

It wasn’t until she saw him running: one random rainy-day...that she were almost convinced that he may have actually been a Viking at some point in his younger years. She consulted her magic book, and was enamored by the images of him attempting to smile when searching for his battle history as a leading Viking. She became infatuated with him: falling under a spell that caused her to sleep whenever she wasn’t crying or longing for maze. She would always affirm their decade age gap made no difference to her behaviorism(s). He laughed at her theories of legitimate diagnosis and passion for psychology: she began to smile for the first time in many moons, and they both noticed that the rain had finally stopped by the time the visit was over. The weather was without control or prediction within the simulation of the Golden Fleece.

She often took joy in knowing he thought the rain only happened as proof that he missed her, and with that: she finally learned to love the rain that had seemed so dearery and burdensome in her youth. He told her of his wish for a son, and she told him of her wish to travel to the stars. She attempted to shorten their cultural distance by explaining her heritage on several attempts: he became offended by her absence in tiresome retreat, and began to yell at anyone near him. He claimed to be annoyed by her retorts, thinking out loud “bitches be crazy...yelling and shit”. The eloquent companionship that offered them both validation in their matching competitive spirits. The fate of an aging athlete had been its own relatable topic of comparable anguish.

One day: she returned to read her magic book, and was surprised when a man stopped by with a friendly "Aye!" and began to praise her fructifying uprbringing, from orphange to rooms with most brilliant minds. This young las said hello, introducing himself through thick accent and broad smile. He had rounded face, youthful with a narrow nose. He informed her that he were an Argonaut, a boy named Kenny offering a votive voyage overseas to meet in person. They were in need of Artemis to join in a massive battle, conflating experiences and war stories, and eventually marching the streets. They were a formitible army, seeking accountability; demanding justice for the children that lived with little hope, and fewer responsible dedicates. She had known the terrors of inhumane treatment found with injustice in systems unfit for children left to rot in their abandoned anguish.

Artemis decided to take up arms and join the Argonauts noble cause. It was appreciated, that they too wore skirts in battle and donned war paint on their face with the unabashed might: a uniform fit only for Gods. The land was lush, scattered with narrow faubourges and stacked and forgotten catacombs. She recalled a hallway, and soft skimming of a heel on fragile flooring: moments where each step counted. Artemis sat in attendance of their First Minister, explaining the demarcation of efforts given to accomidate the wefare of children. Her superfection of public speaking on behalf of the entirety of Wester culture, had left her in a state of leadership: an empathetic individual, needing to make sense out of predestined anguish.

She wept on a stage, pulverizing any doubt of frigidity... Artemis was free from all askance. They fought side by side as a unit to save the children in each homeland and retreated with bountiful praise in organization. They had flanked the entirety of land, holding press conference, rallies, and public crafting events. Artemis had helped them hone the skill of civilian synretic methods, and the art of hidding in plain sight. She felt guilt leaving them so soon: but stood confident at their progress and she knew that the children were in good hands: under the protection of the Argonauts. She worried of the corpulence to recover from, having dined on fine pastries and pies filled with venison each night. The departure from such a wanderful place was its own form of anguish.

Artemis recalled Kenny attempting to pronounce her Yurok name to no avail. Her eyes crinkled with delight, amused by his frugal speech. A true name was not meant to be said verbally, as it kept Artemis awake at night whenever people said it aloud. She explained that her name was the Yurok word for “Sir” and that he was to address her by her English name: Artemis, unless he would be comfortable enough to call her by her real name, which was “Sir”. More often than not....men tended to let the toplic go following the nagging lecture. Adherents to bipassing the cultural side of her existence allowed for others to move beyond such nonessencial dedicatory anguish.

She told this only to him and his comrade Jamie: informing both of them of the origins of her name. Artemis had been born with no name and date of birth (born early due to maternal poisoning), and received her name on a whim to a woman addicted to drinking poison. The T in her name often remained a steala in the back of her thoughts. Did the world even care that she had been raped as an infant? At what excuse would the citzens give the man that stole such innocence, and replaced a child unto the path of Ephebic orphan? Her curiosity and love of her Golden Fleece was all that kept her warm some nights. The device was without judgement, it churrned and yearned for information, a blanket unable to release the buried anguish.

The Argonauts understood, and seemed off-put by this tragic history. The two man easily fell back into the habit of calling her by her English name, Artemis for the sake of nicities. As Artemis fixed her unkempt hair and wiped away her teary eyes,they continued to enjoy each others company instead of risking the appreance of being inimical hosts. Artemis had found great commradary in Kenny, and she worried his rage had be repackaged from his life as a juvinille delinquent. It seemed bizzare to think of the two individuals slumping through the same dark forests, but somehow torn worlds apart with perfectly mirroring anguish.

She noticed that he stood a bit taller taller and his laugh seemed more boisterous. He became less enraged as they walked, and she remained persistent and calm: walking behind him, and holding arms behind a hunched back while silently listening to him resolve conflicts unending. She seemed pleasantly distracted by his earnest and polite demeanor, and gifted the him the honor of the secrets. Artemis had once kept these same mumm’d words from the Viking, unable to keep contact with him through methods delivered in the Golden Fleece.

Artemis avoided telling Kenny aboot the Viking himself: for a reason still unknown...even to her. They argued about a disclosed conversation once held with Captain of the Argonauts: she had updated him on the details of her quest and lack of success. Artemis admired their intellectual leader and laughed with the Captain, as she finally began to ask if he heard word of a random-ass Viking, wandering around on her land yelling at passersbys. They held genuine conversation: one of two friends, that had known one another their whole lives. Artemis couldn’t believe her luck in opportunity, considering it had manifested from a single message of congratualtions by strangers an ocean away. Yet, her they were in person; filled with great company and a hiden virulent understanding of mankind and unjustified anguish.

The Captain had a Redwood figurine nearby that resembled the Viking that still needed her help. He was old and his leg had began to transform into a tree trunk, leaving Artemis to be worried...since the man baby did little for himself when it came to self-care. It was evident, that she’d miss the rowdy Argonauts and the Captain at her side, but Artemis knew that if she were to stay another night....it’d be ipossible to leave the greenery and hillsides. She dismantled all thoughts on the matter, worried this fate would supplant her reality, and conjure whatever curses collected and projected by the Golden Fleece.

Artemis took a boat that soared above the couds to return to her motherlands, where she was greeted by literal fire. Her yard had caught aflame, and the leader of the dead-eyed savages was now standing too close for her comfort: pretending to care about the citizens that lost everything that was engulfed in flames. She stepped begrudgingly off her sky-boat, to observe first hand that everything in her yard was either on fire, and or...racist. Artemis, instantly missed the leadership and command she had encountered with the First Minister abroad. She assumed that the level-headed woman would be bored by this spectacle, holding a speech dismissing aphorism and aknowledging the survivors anguish.

The woman was held in high respect by all her Argonauts, a pillar to communities everywhere. Artemis had been very impressed by the leader. It was an odd feeling to be familiar with a person she had briefly met on her travels. She wrote the woman who led the Argonauts: holding her voice loud enough for the world to hear, as she waited by her magic book for words pertaining to any tactical advice that the leader could provide for such a predicament. Artemis had never witnessed a fire grow so wildly, and watched as it swallowed people whole...with no intent of apologizing. There would be no way to rectitude the smoke and fire damage to such a broad fire: a natural disaster...set out to blamelessly spread anguish.

Artemis sat tight, still left fighting in the dark and dawning a mask to purify the air. The Argonauts were preocuppied, trying to save the children along the lands of what is now known as the North Sea. She sat impatiently, trying to frantically learn how to be helpful: in a time of great danger. Artemis began to tend to a stone, a pearl of sorts...a gleaming streak of hope in curiosity. She began crafting poems, depicting uselessness and the relience of suffering and anguish.

Artemis noticed that the magic book, had somehow physically become lighter in weight with each poem. They were stones to get off ones chest in order to resume operations. She had decided to lament her true darkness to these friendly Argonauts at one point, and gathered a sworded tounge in the processes of a vacation. Her quest had been ultimately delayed...due to curses that caused her to weep stronger than any sea. They had felt her growing boredom being fought off like any child, fighting to stay awake. Holding circle of conversations as to how better prepare Artemis to defend lands without spritely Argonauts, punching one another and holding arguments about their united anguish.

Artemis had explained the pain found deep within the conifines of memories, chained to songs. Asking that they hold conversation over dedicated sets meant to alter her emotions tied to eash song. They showed no hesitation in handling the task of lightening the payload of the weighted contents, and helped her fix the item that had begun degenerating the strength along her spine under its massive weight. Time seemed to quicken in pace upon the completion of her voyage. Artemis grew quickly frustrated by the thickening smoke, since it lingered around long enough to obstruct her view of the stars for almost an entire moon cycle. The Captain of the Argonauts had once told her: that he’d remember her, each and every time he looked up at the moon. She like the thought of such great expectations, and they had left knowing one anothers darknesses and the understanding that both Warriors battled curses from the Gods. She missed her Argonauts each night. Their life lay eight hours East to her time: and since she had only broken the sound barrier once…Artemis doubted her abilities to even design something that could fly fast enough for her to catch up to the Argonauts just in time for Christmas.

Next Chapter: *[ III ] Artemis and the Mechanical Boar*