A capricious whirl of wind,
Whimsy enters the mountain temple. 
Mortal in form, her silver eyes shine,
twin stars reflecting the light
of moon lanterns suspended
above the courtyard.

Jade silk robes whisper about her,
sweeping up the curled petals
on the flagstones.
Her jet-black limbs are glossy
tinted by the pink-fire cloud
that frames her face.

She slows her spinning steps,
approaching a muffled figure 
that radiates annoyance.
What do you want?
he asks the question
without words.

You don't sound pleased
to see me, cousin.

Should I be?
You know you never
leave well enough
alone.

I have no choice,
Enigma.
I am the madness
of common sense.
I am Whimsy--

Sourceless whistles
and clapping
distort the air.
Whimsy smiles,
acknowledging
the phantom applause
with a wave and a curtsy.

You didn't answer my question,
Enigma notes.

I thought I'd play
with Mystery.
I want to be
an oracle.

I have enough
of those already.

His hand
clenches a staff,
its heavy head
an iron standard,
a flat black star
caught within
a crescent moon.

He points it toward
the circular gap
in the wall that is
the temple entrance.
Get out. 
I have no time for this.
Come back--
when you don't want something.