Final Prompt: "Everything we have done or will do we will do over and over and over again— forever." Consider your character's leitmotifs. Write a story that expresses the cyclical nature of the leitmotif, and the rise and fall of these themes in your character's narrative. If it helps you to place the story to music, you may do so, but it is not required.
Iiloridan frowned over the palms of his hands, free of gloves and unencumbered by robe sleeves. In one, a brilliant holy flame rested, wreathed around his fingertips. The glow was warm and welcoming, filling him with a calm and steady drive. Heal. Mend. Bolster. It was a fight to hold it, control it, wield it, as always; but it was a fight he was well used to by now.
The other palm was empty, and had lingered as such for some time; a test of endurance. The healing flame burned brightly, painlessly, without counterpart- before the priest attempted to sunder his will. His brows twitched, a painful twinge passing through his mind. The natural shadows cast by his curled, empty fingers seemed to lengthen- flickering wildly in the silhouette of the now-sputtering flame’s glow. Iiloridan’s brow furrowed and he grimaced, teeth bared and trying to maintain his hold on the Light. Shadows curled eagerly- too eagerly, flowing like oil in water while the flame surged and waned like a shoddy, goblin-made lightning-bulb.
Trying to hold both was like trying to inhale and exhale at the same time. He simply could not do it. Iiloridan’s focus hit a brick wall and the light sputtered out with a pitiful, trailing wisp. Shadow came easily, eagerly to his will after light was snuffed, purple and black motes coalescing into a writhing mass in his palm. Iiloridan sighed in disappointment, otherwise calmly accepting of the dark horror in his hand.
Failure. Again.
It was his own fault, he knew. A failing of his own, not some weakness of the Light. Light and Shadow were strong in equal measure, two sides of the same coin. He honored both, found something worthy of his own quiet form of worship in both, as the dual pair had been of equal use and value to him in his life. Shadows had saved him, aided him; the Light had healed those he cared about. But he’d seen other priests, those with the discipline of the art, wield one and then the other with apparent ease. As of yet, he never could. Shadow came easy at his call, no matter how much holy light he had been channeling previously. But the light was...reluctant to return to him, after weaving shadow. It was like whatever he used to call the light was blocked, withered away by the shade, until it could regrow.
The priest shook his head, ear twitching as he heard the sounds of shadow ravens venturing forth, curious at this old-new game of his. He was missing something, he was sure of it. But no matter what tomes he read, nor priests he spoke with, Iiloridan could not find the answer. The caws of the ravens surrounding the priest were familiar and comforting, but even they had no resolution for him. The way of the light was foreign, the antithesis of their very being. He settled for holding the shadow for a brief time, watching shade ebb and flow across his already dark skin, allowing it to grow within his control; transfixed by the dark violet motes and the beginning hints of the void within- A raven let out a sharp warning caw directly in his ear.
-No!
Iiloridan clenched his fist ruthlessly, crushing the frigid, writhing mass, before splaying his palm and dissipating it forcefully. Not the void. Even he had his limits, and that was a level of darkness he dared not delve into. Shadows could not exist without the light. But void was void. Nothingness. Empty of all but the path to madness.
He breathed, shaking out his hand. Clasping his fingers together, the warmth of his light-touched hand seemed to warm the other with unnatural speed, but it lasted for only a few seconds. Whatever residual blessing might have been left behind, it was not enough. Like trying to warm a frigid bath with only a single hot teacup.
Now, he had to wait. Wait for the light to return to him. There had been progress on that front, over the years. It used to take hours. Iiloridan had reduced it down to minutes, at what he felt was his peak. ...But now, for some reason, he’d been slipping. The time between casting shadow and the Light returning to his will was increasing. It was becoming a problem, and he was determined to figure out why.
He lost track of time, hand curling every few minutes; empty and chilled despite beckoning the Light to his aid over and over again. Finally, finally- the tiniest of sparks; a flame no bigger than a match head, sputtering back to life. The priest curled his palms around it, breathing it back to life with will alone. He let it build, coaxing it to grow back to its previous strength with aching slowness; warming the parts of himself that had been chilled by shadow and void.
Iiloridan allowed himself the comfort of the light, mind and will bolstered by his own success.
3rd: A wasp called the tarantula hawk reproduces by paralyzing tarantulas and laying its eggs into their bodies. When the larvae hatch, they devour the still living spider from the inside out. Isn't that fucked up? Write a short story about how fucked up that is.
He'd gone too deep. Pulled too far. Drawn in too much-
Like falling in a mud hole or being splattered with tar, he could feel the invisible weight of it coating him; an ache in the roots of his nails, a pressure behind his eyes, skewing reality five degrees to the left. It itched under his skin, gnawing at the back of his mind like an forgotten worry. Or a burgeoning madness. Lingering shadow and void clung to him like a parasite. Like the whisper of an Old God-
Working with shadow was like balancing on a knife's edge. You had control, or you split yourself open.
Shadow ravens swarmed around him, eerie cries ringing happily as they called their brethren out of the twisting nether for a feast. The circled close, snapping things out of the air around him that he could not see. Perching on open palms or a curved knee, deceptively affectionate carrion feeders that they were. Friendly, allied shadow versus infesting void. Their gestures were familiar; birds groomed one another, preened each other's feathers. Picking harmlessly at his hair and skin as they were, the ravens might as well have been simply doting on a flock member.
In their own way, they were.
Iiloridan took slow, heavy drags from his cigarette, watching the shadow ravens grow heavy and fat. Umbra, queen of his flock, cawed imperiously at the others from her perch on his chest. The itch of tempting void madness lessened.
He watched, too morbidly curious to look away, and too afraid of what he might see to allow his perception to focus fully. A shadow raven swallowed the squirming blot of void pulled from the air beyond his right ear, and he shivered, hair rising on the back of his neck.
26th: Everyone’s addicted to something. What are the things your character can’t go without?
Iiloridan sprawled in the grass, double-wreathed in shade, the void-shadows covering his form rendering him almost insubstantial. The shade of the willow tree he was under did the rest, leaving him all-but invisible. He had no reason to be submerged in shadowform; the strangely addictive, surreal sense of self it produced when he hovered on the edge of the veil was reason enough. The shadow ravens were only a bonus, a full murder of the birds filling the air around him with soft caws and calls, wingbeats setting the golden leaves swaying. The near-weightless avians flitted around him, perching on raised knees or pressing dark heads under fingertips, silently begging for their head feathers scratched; dark beaks preened uselessly at his long hair in return.
Cool and almost content, Iiloridan eventually sent the birds back into flight to fuss with a small stack of thin parchment, pulling out a single sheet and laying it flat on the grass at his side. A small, red pouch came out next, drawstring opening easily. Iiloridan gave the contents a sniff - ah, that smell! - eyes flickering briefly in bliss. Small red flakes were poured out into the middle of the parchment and then rolled up; the edge got a lick, sealing the cylinder. He brought it back up to his mouth, fingertips snapping. When nothing happened, he frowned, and snapped again; the shadows flickered, drawing away like oil in soapy water as a brief spark of holy flame sputtered into existence.
Bloodthistle and paper smouldered, crackled and finally burned, and Iiloridan took a deep drag. The lone light in the darkness was quickly smothered, but the priest seemingly gave no notice in how eagerly it was snuffed by shadow.
Lori blew out a smoky breath, turning the air a hazy red. The shadow ravens flitted in and out of existence around the vapors; they didn't seem to mind the smoke. Rather, they apparently enjoyed it, weaving around red smoke and embers causing it to trail after their insubstantial feathers. Iiloridan laughed and took another deep drag off his bloodthistle cigarette and let the smoke fill his lungs, the potent herb seeping into his blood and igniting his mana; rattled nerves settling down another notch. He exhaled, throat and lips working in four short bursts as he turned his head, smoke rings floating out and filling the hidden shelter.
The shadow ravens trilled pleased cries, inky wings folding as they dove through the rings, threading the needle. The cigarette slowly burned away as he leisurely repeated the trick several times, for the amusement of his flock. A touch of mana wove the thistle smoke into more unnatural, complex shapes: hexagons and cubes, and a rotating wagon wheel; a quill feather that sailed through the air like a little boat; a smoke snake that chased several ravens before being pounced and scattered by five birds at once.
Eventually he dozed, smoky air dissipating through the branches of the tree; stub of his cigarette safely smothered in the grass. Content enough to be forgetful and still submerged in shadowform, only the loyalty of his ravens kept dark dreams of the void at bay.
