He walked over to the table, and gazed down upon the miniature landscape — the tiny rolling mountains, miniature lakes and fields. Floating over all were the drifting white clouds, hovering in the air, perfectly formed in every detail. It all looked so serene, so untouched by time.
He held no illusions — time itself was his enemy. For time could so easily change everything, unless something were done. Slowly, delicately, he passed one hand over the table, speaking words in an ancient tongue as his fingers moved in an intricate pattern.
For a few moments nothing happened. Then the tiny clouds started to gather, to darken. The air beneath began to stir ominously. He gazed mournfully upon his handiwork for a long moment, until he could see the first tiny flashes of lightning.
Then he turned away.