Clocks. You know what they are. A timepiece, an ornament, an alarm. Some clocks churn and tick and clank. Some spin and bob and sway. Some hold a stance of proud posture, or hang from walls echoing a mellow chime. The keepers of time. A tick-tock after tick-tock that can either be absorbed into four walls, or provoke fear, worry or excitement. They make sense of the experience of one moment ending and another beginning. A way of pinpointing some of the information that strings together this universe and the nine realms that rotate within it.

It is an art. Not only in the measurement of time, but the way it is told. Some clocks are wasted by the very thing they live to express, with two strained hands reaching toward fatigued digits. Other clocks are fresh and confident, with tall weaves of gold and crystal, holding a heavy pendulum that dances to the harmonic tune of time. Some stand tall with defined Cherry Wood or Oak Wood or Mahogany. Some recite stories through the scars gained by previous owners and adventures, where as some are cherished enough to hide age behind a sleek preserved surface.

But what would a clock have to do with this tale? Well, everything of course.