A pair of silver orbs sit complacent in their rafters, rising briefly above an alabaster stage. The layers of the stage are smooth like fine porcelain, yet scarred by the wrinkles of an all too human frown. These eyes trace the image of an hourglass. It is framed by marble and its glass is of a substance unknown in the natural realm. It shines with a violet hue, for the moment. For the moment because within a split second it could change, the shifts determined by an unknown factor. None have ever questioned its purpose, they've only confirmed that it exists. What else could they do? The antique was far beyond mortal comprehension, and to most it was just an archaic timer. Humanity could never grasp the concept of magicked weapons and decor. Instead they secreted away the fantastic thoughts into bindings of leather and tree pulp.

It was that very action that caused beings such as Desgacht to be forgotten, nothing more than a memory, a fairytale. Fleeting in their brief moments of existence, humans were never ready to grasp the concept of an immortal being. No, their minds were fickle and constantly seeking meaning. But their meaning was the short time they had on the world. The chance to become a legend yet having history prove their factual life. Monuments would be raised in their name to further force their fame into the future.

Desgacht, wearing a frail smile, could only nod at his own thoughts. Immortality was his 'fiction,' as the mortals would label it. It did not bother him, only their ignorance did. Unwilling to accept that which they don't understand, humans thrust themselves into stories of forbidden lore. Fantasies of ghouls and ghosts; heroes and sorcerers, it was their escape. An escape to a pitiable legacy, he seemed to say with a disapproving sigh. The sound he made so often, the exhale of air that escaped his pale lips, was one familiar to the warm Damascus walls of the room which was named: The Chamber of Turns. It was named for the very same hourglass that Desgacht spent every moment of his endless life looking after.

In his gaze the image faded, revealing a bare orihalcum pedestal. The treasure was gone, his ward lost. To safeguard the very center of the dimension's clockwork existence, was both an honor and punishment. Punishment for being naive, yet a test of patience for the young. It was an exam Desgacht had seemed to fail and now he was brooding. The Hourglass of Turns was an order keeping device, each finely polished grain of sand representing a life in plane of the living. It would be impossible to predict what would happen to existence if the object was in the hands of an ignorant mortal. He or she could turn it upside down and thus reverse the flow of life; they could lay it on its side and stop every light from being extinguished, none would make their great journey. The immortal man did not want to even consider the worst-case scenario: the hourglass being shattered. To do so would take an immense amount of power, but success would end all existence; both in this dimension and the thousands more linked to it.

Even now sitting there in the empty room, Desgacht felt no motivation to retrieve the item, it was not his fault it vanished. It made no sense to him why it was safeguarded in the human realm to begin with. They were warlike and stupid, clearly undeserving of such a relic in their presence. In fact he hoped for it all to end, if only to escape a longer term in the land of cattle and mindless squabbling.  A sudden rumble echoed in the silent room, reverberating back into Desgacht's ears which twitched in response. Though he was Immortal, his body still craved food, water and air. He could survive without them, albeit uncomfortably, but it was much better to sate his body's whims.

Desgacht could practically feel the eyes of his elders as he rose from his seat. The intensity of their gaze left the immortal feeling as if there were thousands of hot spots covering his flawless body. Each one knew about the situation and watched in contempt, they clearly did not like him. Who could blame them for their animosity, Desgacht was of an objective opinion. Many times he had plagued the high council to snuff the growing flames they called their most ingenious creation. His beliefs were firm that they did not deserve any of the gifts so hastily bestowed upon the fledgling civilizations, for in the end they turned their blessings towards war.

They coddled the human race, spoiled them beyond any chance of true self-dependence.