She dances through the void in solitude, pirouetting eternally before the audience of light.
First she is a smear, a sparkling watercolor blur across the canvas.
Then she becomes solid, flushed red with the embarrassment of corporeality. Veins of blackness appear and spread as the heat of youth fades to a diffuse glimmer. She hardens in some places, softens in others. As she builds a shield between herself and the void, a sheen of moisture begins to cover her, creating reflections and depths.
Cloudy veils drape her visage, greys and whites reflecting messages from distant strangers. Shedding shadows, she becomes infused with the bluest blue on all sides, before verdant greens arise from the depths to accent her raiment. The silence is applause.
Strange tattoos make themselves visible across her celestial body, and in them all manner of things rise and fall. Torchlight and stone, coal and cobblestone, concrete and steel. They writhe and expand, covering her with glimmering motes of possibility. In darkness she becomes radiant for an aeon before falling into shadow.
And the green rises. Why, we cannot know. But it spreads and spreads, swallowing brown and grey, swallowing tattoos and blues, swallowing all. Soon there are only a few shapes that can be discerned from a distance, fallen giants sleeping in an eternal meadow.
The rest of her is a rich, unbroken, uniform green. To stand on her surface is to be able to look in any direction and see flat, unbroken grassland stretching all the way to the horizon in every direction. The sun is often hidden. Devoid of context, of any way to tell one direction from another, the mind and the self shrink and stumble in confusion. When the wind comes, with nothing to break or stop it, it is as the finger of god dragging patterns through the grass, leaving flattened channels miles wide.
This, then, is the bizarre and beautiful Windswept World. It may seem monotonous on the surface, but in fact it is riddled with both intangible and tangible perils, all the way to its core.