Please light the dark, then dark the light

Angry dark, I have talked to it. Like in the old days. Where their any old days? It’s hard to tell if you travel.

Anger out of light, I have mortified on them. Like the crew stepped out to the craywolf lair. Their claws, teeth and tails.

My crew, my friends. I’m shaking at the thought. The darkest moments of my life, flights of arrows. The fighter planting the  shadows. The girl I love, turning her body into the shape of a dire wolf. My oldest friend casting a lightning bolt into the fray.

Their dead, all the same. Clacking in the court. The light of the room of people in suits, standing me over a barrel. The prosecutor gaining the jury’s bellows. The man I hate, turning my words into the shape of a demon in the sky.

Craywolf, skitter out of their nest. Hard shelled clawed beasts ten foot tall, six foot wide. Come at us in numbers higher than the sky. Overrun the shadow fighter, their claws blight him until he dies.

Dire, dire, wolf, the girl I love takes bites of Craywolf flesh, her teeth munching through their carapace like soft tissues, manacles too many though, and blood and fur run. I watch helplessly as my spells have bare minimum effect.

My old friend and I try to reach her before the end, he’s throwing lighting like the Tempest of Ger’tend. I try my different spells, the ones from my oldest toam. The first I cast turns their flesh into mush and tears most limb and bone. 

I grab. I twist, I have her in my hands. I turn to the friend, and say that it’s time to light the dark. He say, no but it’s time to dark the light. 

I gasp, I weep at such a hateful betrayer. In a single step, the girl no more than dust. His spells are just as powerful as mine and I have only my speed of thought. To quicken, I cast the one spell I have that will ace him in his step.

Darkness? No, a purpose for this spell is needed more than most. Given all my power it will surely have to work. I speak the words, the little things that are so powerful and with a little quirk. He can cannot assertain what I’m about to say. 

Quod est cogitare et terribilis apon anima tua!

Suddenly the lighting, the flesh, the wind, every spell he has ever cast upon another being is cast upon him. The effect upon him is gruesome, and quick. He is dead long before the spell finishes. I am hopeful that such a thing never happens to me. 

I weep. Their dead all the same. I’m going to be in that room. The room of judgement. Having been such a failure. But I take what I can from this. The dust. 

I forge it, with the little magic I have left and the bold of the craywolf. In one little ring. I hold the remains of my daughter.


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