Genre fiction, as Terry Pratchett has pointed out, is a stew. You take stuff out of the pot, you put stuff back. The stew bubbles on.

“The PriestessHer skin was pale, and her eyes were dark, and her hair was dyed b…”

“The daylight faded slowly: distances collapsed and the world turned indigo and …”

“Things bloosom in their time. They bud and bloom, blossom and fade. Everything …”

“They were waiting for me in the books and in stories, after all, hiding inside …”