A mystic is a wild creature. She is made. She is deliberately forged by something mysterious. She is created for a purpose. She spends all her life seeking, for there is nothing else worth doing. She peers and gazes until she falls from the edge of the world, and into the next. Over and over.
Each time she returns, she is a little different. What she sees must change her. She dies evert day. She is reborn in every moment. Can you even begin to fathom the terror and the faith commanded from such a being? Can you even begin to understand what such a life can do?