Teyr'loch Delter Pach:

The Complete Rough Draft

Of Note

I present to you the fruits of my labor from the past 6-7 months. While not a final draft by any definition of the phrase, it's the most complete the performance has felt since I first started working on it, and I believe this completed rough draft will showcase the method of storytelling I wish to develop and cultivate.

All in all, it's between 16k-17k words. Portions of it are where I want them; other areas need a heavy dose of editing. Some areas could use more description, some less, and some smiles and nods can likely be cut, but for now, I blow my party horn and toss some confetti so that I might faint atop the pile, because I now have a full draft with which to work.

You may notice the formatting is not set up in the usual paragraphing style. For these sorts of performances, I use bullet points because it helps me keep track of beats, timing, rhythm, etc...much more easily than what traditional paragraphs allow. I apologize in advance if it seems difficult to follow as a result.

I've used YouTube links where I can but had to embed some from Spotify here and there, which are only previews of the actual pieces I used. I don't own any of the music linked, though I do hope to someday compose my own for the entirety of one of these performances. I'm slowly working up to it.

A refresher of the church layout; the "stage"is the octagonal picture in the top right.

Prologue

• In the silence, I start moving, the only sound the whisper of cloth rustling against my skin.

• I fall into a light trance, watching my step through half-lidded eyes just so I don’t trip over any of the ropes.

• The shadows respond accordingly, ebbing and flowing around the room like the pull of the tide, swirling along the lengths of the walls and columns counterclockwise alongside me.

• This is me, as I am now, fully awakened and accepting of my gift. How the other Kayal react, I do not know; I cannot afford to lose my concentration under their shock or horror, so I let myself be what I am and show my father just how nuanced my control has become since I became me, dialing the shadows back to the beginning, back to when I was no one, back to when I was empty and at the mercy of commands I had no will to disobey, back to a plush yet sparse bedroom.

 [Find Music?]

• The shadows splash into furniture—a bed, a desk, a dresser, shelves that display silhouettes of souvenirs and decorative pieces. A rectangular outline frames a closed door, and the empty outline of a young Kayal sits at a desk writing in a book with a small lantern flickering light through negative space.

• There’s a knock, and the shadow of the door opens. An elegant silhouette with a commanding presence enters followed closely by another bearing a tray. The latter places the tray on the nightstand next to the bed, pulls back the covers, and bows before leaving as the woman approaches the empty Kayal, who is in the process of closing their book.

• Myra’chen: Cael, it is time for bed.

• The empty silhouette turns and slides out of the chair with unnatural rigidity, not responding like a child might with the usual complaints and gripes of not feeling tired. They simply obey, walk over to climb into bed.

• Their mother follows.

• She stands there a moment, a shadow in contemplation, a wariness to the slight fall of her shoulders. As though realizing her slip in presentation, she straightens herself and then takes a seat at the edge of the bed, reaching out with a hand to run slender fingers through the child’s hair. The gesture is not unkind but neither is it warm. It is the practiced motion of a mother who has automated her affection to a child who cannot feel.

• Myra: Shall I sing you a lullaby, Cael?

• The child does not respond, not even with a nod.

• Myra: It has been quite some time, hasn’t it?

• She replaces her delicate hands in her lap and stares off at a fixed point elsewhere.

• As a memory of shadow, she does not see me dancing.

• Magic glitters through the church’s sanctuary, sparkling motes of dust gathering together into landmarks recognizable only within stories from the Shadow Plane.

• A full, luminous moon shimmers into existence in front of Phusyn’s lantern, reflecting the lantern light in a soft white glow.

• Thick, spongy vines speckled with luminescent flowers and colorful ivy overtake each of the ropes, weaving around the legs of the pews.

• A myriad of alien sounds from creatures long thought extinct echo their chorus within the chamber, a private concert for their lucky audience.

• While the unfolding scene and ethereal quality of my mother’s voice captivates my audience’s attention, I myself meld into the shadows, disappearing from sight.

Mother Nightmare's Lullaby

○   There was a time our world was beautiful ○   back before night shattered into shadow, ○   where flowers and vines cast their gentle light ○   and the stars sequined the sky ‘round Te’thuil.	○   A massive, silvery moon, appears in front of Phusyn’s lantern. ○   Glowing vines and flowers weave around the legs and arms of the pews. ○   I melt into the shadows so as not to detract from the song.
○   O’ Te’thuil, giver of life, ○   delivered on the wings of Kalduin, ○   forgive us our betrayal ○   to the flash of that Palktuk’s knife.	○   A nightingale made of starlight lands on the bowl. Spreading its wings, it deposits light from which animals with glowing fur and scales manifest.
○   That Palktuk began with good intentions ○   to save everyone from the final malady ○   known as death, or so that's what they said, ○   they'd end it across all dimensions.	○   A cloaked figure enters the circle with the nightingale and circles it thoughtfully. The bird watches their every movement.
○   Thus, they captured and caged our precious Kalduin. ○   Yes! It seemed that death had ceased. ○   No suffering, no pain in this new paradise, ○   so thought we all. Ne'er could we have foreseen ○   when the sky went dark. ○   Oh, the stars went dark.	○   The figure snaps their fingers, and a domed cage traps all of us within its iron bands. The figure smiles, and they depart as the stars slowly blink to darkness.
○   O’ Te’thuil, giver of life, ○   delivered on the wings of Kalduin, ○   forgive us our betrayal ○   to the flash of that Pakltuk’s knife.	○   The shadows on the wall show an era of prosperity: bounties of food, festivals, and dancing. All the while, Kalduin’s baleful cry falls on deaf ears.
○   O' Kalduin, filled with such despair, ○   thine glimmering silver feathers bleeding to gray. ○   Forgive us for this ruin ○   and the birth of Efiáltis.	○   Its feathers dim as it hunches over the bowl. Gone is the glitter, gone are the animals. Even the surrounding plants begin to wither, seeming to feed something within the shadows.
○   Efiáltis consumed everyone's dreams, ○   turned them to beasts and devoured utopia. ○   Refugees fled to the few cities left, ○   but no barrier could silence her screams, ○   her haunting melodies.	○   A raven caws. Kalduin’s shadow opens two pairs of red eyes and detaches itself, gliding along the floor into the walls where prosperity reigns. The silhouettes begin to scream and flee as friends and families become monsters. ○   The shadows melt and flare into a barrier surrounding a city, outside of which hovers Mother Nightmare.
○   The people, they cried for Kalduin's release, ○   but that Palktuk had spiraled into madness. ○   With blade imbued with the power to kill gods, ○   they thrust it deep into the heart of peace. ○   Kalduin slain. ○   Te'thuil dimmed. ○   Dimmed. ○   Dimmed. ○   Dimmed. ○   Gone. ○   Gone dark.	○   The shadows reform again, showing people crowding temples, praying for salvation. The cloaked figure returns, visibly annoyed, and plunges a knife into Kalduin’s chest. ○   It dissipates into glittering dust. ○   The moon dims. ○   I pause from my shadow weaving, struck by a niggling thought. ○   Why does this story feel familiar from a personal angle?
○   Cracks cleaved through the moon's exterior, ○   which fractured apart with a violent shockwave. ○   It rotates now like shards of jagged glass, ○   hanging above, a broken mirror.	○   Sundering the moon rattles me, and I, despite my invisibility, glance to Professor Wyse to see if he’s drawing the same conclusions as I. ○   Later, I tell myself, focus on the now.
○   O' Tar'thayal, thief of precious life, ○   gathered by the beasts of nightmare! ○   Thine radiance, oh so frail, ○   casts a dull and mirthless shine.	○   Twisted forms of the animals skulk about the broken cage, their light replaced with wisps of shadow. The cloaked figure stands amongst them, their presence going unchallenged.
○   O' Efiál! 'Tis not us you seek, ○   'Tis that apostate, that Palktuk! ○   Spare us from this fell Hell! ○   It's their fault this land is bleak.	○   The silhouettes of a grieving people lift their hands, beseeching. They alternate between jabbing at the cloaked figure and renewing their prayers. ○   While the monsters supplicate themselves before the figure, Mother Nightmare, who lands on the bowl before them, does not.
○   O' Te'thuil! Hear us and our plight, ○   our wish is to restore you to full. ○   O' Kalduin, shining nightingale, ○   spread thine wings and once more take flight!	○   The crowd of believers diminishes, melting back into the shadows as their voices fall on deaf ears.
○   There was a time our world was beautiful, ○   but night has since shattered into shadow. ○   No flowers nor vines cast their gentle light. ○   No stars sequin the sky 'round Tar'thayal. ○   It is dark 'round Tar'thayal. ○   It is dark here, Te'thuil ○   I’m coming, Te'thuil.	○   The shadows depict a temple. It is empty. ○   Darkness consumes the walls and pillars of the sanctuary, leaving only the bleak moon glowing dimly.

[Compose Music for this whole section]

• The illusions and shadows splash into the floor, dissipating.

• An Akryna that wasn’t present at the beginning of the performance closes a book in his lap, punctuating the silence. His expression is somber. I sit next to him in the pew, my hands stuffed into the gap within my crossed legs.

• (Pause)

• Cael: So…I was erased because my parents were afraid I would become a monster like the ones depicted in the story?

  • Mem: You are hollow, a child awaiting a directive, an empty vial held in your hand. It’s taken by your mother. You reply only when commanded and with simple, straightforward answers. Your voice is dull, monotone. You respond to objective questions asked by your mother, but when she asks a question you do not understand, your silence is answer enough. You are obedient. You are pliant. You are nobody.

• After the last gasps have fallen silent, I ask,

• Cael: Was curing me really the right choice, Valen? Wouldn’t it have been better if they’d had me killed outright? The people in power, surely they would have made an exception to the law if they’d known the circumstances behind my erasure. Then Matra and Patra could have tried again. <Tearily> They could have had a normal child. You could have been their child; they loved you. You are everything they could have ever hoped to have, but instead they were stuck with me, and my existence only brought them pain.

• Valen sets the book aside and twists to pull me into a hug, holding me while, hiccuping, I press the heels of my palms against my watery eyes.

• Valen, compassionately: Cael…Cael, I can’t claim to understand your parent’s decisions, but I’ve known them long enough to have seen how much they cherished you. You didn’t bring them pain. You have some memories of your father, right?

• I nod.

• He releases me, gingerly taking both my hands in his and pulls them away from my tearstained face.

• Valen: You remember his smile?

  • Mem: You sit with Valen under the heated table in the center of the living room. The memory is indistinct, fuzzy, making it difficult to distinguish more than the general visage of your father, who sits across from you both, waving his arms in imitation of someone swinging a sword. Eventually, he reaches for something next to him and slides two boxes across the table, one to you and one to Valen. You take it when instructed and open it. For a moment, the memory sharpens to full clarity. A whaletooth comb rests within a velvet inlay of dark indigo. It is a gift. Gifts are treasures. From your periphery, you can just make out your father smiling. It’s directed toward you.

• Valen: In many ways, I was part of the family, but only you were his Little Shadow.

• Cael: If they cared about me, then why didn’t they give me a chance? Why call me Little Shadow if not to remind me of my otherness? I’m a monster, Valen. You’ve seen how the shadows respond to my emotions. There’s a darkness in me, and someday it’s going to corrupt me, just like in the story.

• Valen’s silent for a moment, his contemplative look betraying his careful search for words. In a calm, measured tone, he speaks.

• Valen: We have within each of us a darkness that can manifest in different ways, but that doesn’t mean you’ll turn to darkness just because you share a connection with the shadows. Sometimes people will do bad things for a good reason. Sometimes people will do good things for a bad reason. Sometimes people will do good to hide that they are bad, and some people just relish being bad. What we value, we nurture.

• Cael: ‘Life is a precious thing.’

• He smiles.

• Valen: Yes.

  • Mem: You’re together with Valen beneath the Weeping Moon Tree. He’s on the ground, his back covered in mud as he gawks up at you. You don’t know what happened. One moment he was showing you a dance, the next he was on the ground. He leaps to his feet, reaching for your arms. He leans in to gaze directly into your eyes, his flicking between them. He asks you questions you do not understand. Finally, he hugs you. He’s shaking. Your arms remain at your side. He releases you, holds you at arm’s length. His eyes are red. He has been crying. He’s not crying now. He asks, ‘Do you take the medicine every day?’ This question you can answer. Yes. ‘When?’ Bedtime, you reply. He wipes his eyes with his hands, smearing mud across his face. He takes your hands and says he needs to go home for today but that he’ll be back tomorrow. ‘I promise to help you, Cael, okay? I promise.’

• Valen: And now you have the choice to find what you value, too. The medicines I make to help people could easily be made into poisons that hurt them instead. It took me many, many years to learn how to use my apparatuses correctly.

• Cael: Do you think even darkness can be used to help people?

• Valen: I know it. You just need to learn how to control it, and that can take both patience and time. I have no doubt you can turn those worries and superstitions from our culture on their head.

• Cael: But what if that choice is taken away from me again?

• Valen: It won’t be, not as long as I’m here. I’ll find a way to cure you again.

  • Mem: You’re sitting on the floor across from Valen, the music box plinking a soft melody between you both. You stare at it, something…gentle tugging at you. He asks you a question you’ve heard before, and though part of you wishes to answer, the box has captured your full attention. It is a treasure. It is a treasure because it was a gift, and Valen was the one who told you that gifts are treasures.

  • The melody is slowing. Soon, it will stop playing. That realization causes something inside of you to squirm. Why hasn’t Valen turned the key again? The music is going to stop. You do not want it to stop, so why won’t he turn the key? You want to hear it again, because it…

  • You don’t know the words, but you know it was a gift from Valen, and gifts are treasures, so you want to hear it again. Yes, you want to hear it again, so if he won’t turn the key, then you will.

  • As you reach forward to take the music box in your hands and turn the key so it continues its song, you bottom out.

• Cael: What if you fail?

• I ask.

• Cael: What if you can’t cure me again or you are not around or the shadows are bad and they corrupt me and I become the very monster my parents feared? What would you do, Valen?

• Valen shifts uncomfortably.

• Valen, flustered: I…I do not know.

• (A pause)

• Cael, softly: Can you promise me something?

• Valen: Yes, of course.

• Cael: Even if you do not like it?

• After a moment’s hesitation, Valen, still holding onto my hands, nods.

• Valen: I can already tell I’m not going to like it, but I can see you need to say it, so go ahead, tell me.

• Cael: If it so happens that I really am a monster; if I lose myself and no matter what you try you cannot find me again, then I…

  • Mem: A sharp pins-and-needles warmth zips through your fingertips as you stand before the shelves touching each and every one of your gifts multiple times: a pair of mugs, a whaletooth comb, a hooded lantern, and more. Precious precious gifts. From Valen. From Patra. Salvanti from Matra.

  • You start laughing with your sobs.

  • You turn to look back at Valen. He’s gawping, and his voice quivers as he asks,‘Cael? How are you feeling?’

  • You laugh at the question as the final piece of numbness breaks away, a question you never understood but can finally answer: I feel.

• Cael: I need you to end me, Valen.

• Valen recoils from my request, grimacing, but I push.

• Cael: I do not want to become a monster. I do not want to hurt anyone. I do not want the shadows to become so strong I lose control, but I…I cannot go through being erased again. I do not want to lose ‘me.’ I-I can’t. I can’t.

  • Mem: Flashes of a memory. A feverish nightmare. You’re shivering but sweating. Everything hurts. Someone’s holding you. Glass to your lips. It reeks, the liquid syrupy and bitter. Medicine. That medicine. Someone’s trying to erase you. You expel the medicine, thrashing weakly, sobbing, whimpering. The shadows heed your summons, the spell waking you with a jolt from your half-waking nightmare.

  • Valen’s face is the first you see, and it’s pale with fear. A painful spasm lances through your chest. You’re begging him not to look at you that way when the glint of an empty vial in his hand catches your eye. You scramble away from him, shrieking at him to get out, but he disobeys, claiming that you’re sick.

  • Sick! Sick! That’s what they thought, too; that’s why they erased you, and now he’s trying to erase you, too. He’s just like them! Tears stream down his cheeks; he’s just trying to take care of you, he says, pulling you to his chest. Your head is swimming and you cannot stop shaking. “I can’t,” you whimper. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”

• Valen: I know, Cael. I know. If it means freeing you from living a life outside your own control, then I…I promise. I don’t like it, but I promise. (Pause) But you have to promise me something, too, okay?

• Cael: Okay…

• Valen: Who you are right now? That’s the real you. I know it. So, live this life the way you’ve always wanted, okay?

• Cael: But I don’t know who I am.

• Valen: Then how about we discover who you are together?

• Cael: Together? You’ll stay with me?

• Valen: For as long as you want me.

• Cael: Soooo, that means forever, right?

• Valen’s laugh is warm and pure, and it enraptures me.

• Valen: Promise, Cael?

• I look down and rock side to side.

• Cael: I promise.

  • Mem: Furious at Valen for forcefeeding you medicine, you lash into him where it hurts most. What he did was invasive, and you would have rather died. It isn’t as though you’ll live as long as him anyway, you spit bitterly, and then descend into a fit of coughs.

  • His calm detachment in the silence that follows your bout of coughing scares you. He places a small canister in front of you with brief instructions on its usage, his final words to you as he stands to leave pivotal to the person you would eventually become: ‘Life is a precious thing…and yours is no different, especially to me.’

Act I

•  Valen rises from the pew and pulls me to my feet. I relax under his smile, returning it with one of my own, and join him, where he begins to teach me the steps for one of Shadow Ezada’s more traditional dances.

• A tendril of shadow runs down the length of a rope adjacent to us, and off of it ticks another, clockwise.

  • Mem: You ask Feppy what he’s searching for as you spy him near your house. He answers that he’s playing hide and seek. You admit you don’t know what that is, which earns you a baffled look. He asks if you want to play, which is how he ropes you into helping him find the other children.

• I trip over the rope behind me and stumble, unable to save myself from tumbling flat onto my back.

• Valen is instantly at my side, searching for injuries as I recover from my daze and begin laughing. Seeing my good humor, he laughs, too.

• Cael: This is difficult!

• I say to him as I sit up. He helps me to my feet, saying,

• Valen: That’s why we practice, Cael.

• Cael: But Valen, I prefer to live on the edge!

• Valen: Which is how you’ve become my # 1 patient.

• I just laugh, and we resume where we left off, the rope I mussed up inching back to its rightful place.

• Aside from a slight shudder of amusement, the shadows themselves remain oddly quiet, a small dust swirl here, a minor nudge there. They respond timidly, like they themselves do not want to obtrude.

  • Mem: You’re with Valen visiting one of his regulars. The array of knick-knacks people keep always fascinate you, but this time a hollow ‘box’ with strings stretched across it piques your curiosity. When you ask what it is, the older gentleman tells you it’s a fiddle, reminiscing on the times he used to play. He’d forgotten all about it and agrees to play for you after some eager insistence. Delighted by the sound, you mention how you think it’d be nice if others could hear him play, too. A few nights later, while you and Valen are grabbing a bite to eat at Whitbrew’s, he begins playing for the few people there.

• Tired of Shadow Ezada’s stiff, minimal dance, when it comes time to turn again, I do so with my own flair, much to Valen’s amusement. It doesn’t take us long to break from the traditional dance and begin a hybrid of our own.

• The secondhand shadow ticks along the rope.

  • Mem: Whitbrew’s is the fullest you’ve ever seen it thanks to the regular musical performances given by the townsfolk. The customers just couldn’t help but start dancing once the music became a regular event, and they were more than eager to teach you and Valen as well. You laugh while talking to Whitbrew, joking that it’s so crowded in here, he’s going to have to install a patio so he can house more customers!

  • A few months later, you stand on the newly finished patio, grinning. You’re happy for Whitbrew.

• Valen and I transition into one of the folk dances we learned in Willowdale, clapping and stomping where appropriate. At one point, I swing my hips a little more suggestively. Valen’s blush is immediate, which only encourages me to wink at him and flirt more boldly.

• The shadow ticks again.

  • Mem: Your ears feel naked. Both ear cuffs rest in the palm of your hand. You thumb one of your newly exposed ears as you wrestle with complex emotions. It’s…scary. Exhilarating. Freeing but almost too much so. It feels wrong. You shouldn’t have removed them. You’re not worthy of courtship.

  • You look up to tell Valen this, but your breath catches once your eyes meet, and all the anxiety crumbles away.

  • With the breath that caught, you blurt out that you want to be with him. For the rest of your life.

  • As your confession tumbles out of your mouth, Valen’s eyes widen.

  • He asks you if you wouldn’t rather wait and find somebody else, and you begin fretting with the cuffs, self-conscious that maybe you made a mistake.

  • ‘I’ve always loved you,’ you admit. ‘You’re my best friend. You’re my Te’thuil.’

(Silence)

• I stop dancing abruptly.

• Valen notices a heartbeat later after pirouetting. He starts, nearly stumbling as the shadow ticks to the next rope. He hurries to my side, rubbing my arms and gently calling my name. I do not appear to hear him, and the emptiness in my expression is eerily familiar.

  • Mem: Someone’s rubbing your arm. You focus on that feeling, then follow the hand up to Valen’s concerned face. You were…helping him dress for the Starlight Festival, because it is difficult to properly align a yuthka without help, but…but you dissolved partway through. Only for a few minutes, Valen clarifies, following it up by asking how you’re feeling.

  • You shake your head, unsure. Everything is fuzzy, but you’ll be okay, you reassure him with a faint smile. Today marks the first anniversary of your awakening, and you do not want that state to ruin it.

  • Maybe that’s what you’ll wish for tonight. You’ll wish for an end to that state so it doesn’t scare you or Valen any longer.

• Returning to myself, I give Valen a brief, tired smile, reaching for him again to continue our dance, this time slowed to one that’s more comfortable and intimate, our bodies pressed together, my head resting against his shoulder.

• The tendril of shadow ticks to the next rope.

  • Memory: Valen sits across from you at the kitchen table fretting with his hands, speaking in bittersweet echoes. You wish he would accompany you to Zhilta, but you’ve already had that conversation. His place is here, even if you both will miss each other dearly.

  • He produces your favorite music box, inside of which, resting in a new layer of velvet lining is a pair of ear cuffs. Your breath hitches as he asks you to marry him upon your return. You choke on your laughter, tears blurring your vision. Yes. Yes, of course. If that’s what he wants, then nothing, nothing would make you happier. Because that’s what you want as well. He stands and approaches you with tears glistening behind those smiling indigo eyes you so adore, and you sob laugh as he places the cuff upon your ear.

• Our dance slows to the end, and I release the hug to hold onto Valen’s hands, looking only at him with wistful longing.

Brief Aside

•  Without looking away, I speak.

• Cael: If there is anyone who would like to take their leave, now would be the time to do so. I cannot keep track of who can tolerate what, and the memories I have shared thus far are some of the tamest you will see tonight.

• I blink away tears during the time of anyone else’s departure. It still hurts to see him, knowing that he’s not really here.

Resume

• Once silence has returned to the sanctuary, I murmur,

• Cael: Goodbye, Valen…

• And let go of his hands. I dust away to sparkling motes of shadowy fireworks similar to the sending off I gave him the day I left Willowdale.

• The secondhand shadow ticks again, landing adjacent to where it began.

• Valen stares after me, his smile faltering. The shadows on the walls sprout into trees, day giving way to the curtain of night in a rapidly passing cycle of months and seasons until nearly one year later, the rotation slows to a halt.

• The shadow ticks one final, deafening time, interposing itself over the original.

• There’s a sudden crack of splintering wood.

• Valen jolts, his head jerking to the source.

• He, too, dusts away.

(Silence)

• A moment passes, and then the secondhand ticks back one, counterclockwise, and this time the passage of days and seasons rotates in reverse, freshly budding flowers closing, dead and fallen leaves lifting back to their branches, where they sway in an unfelt breeze.

• My voice echoes from someplace unseen, eager and determined.

• Cael: Give me one year at the College, and I’ll build a community there the likes of which you have never before seen.

• The shadows give rise to the outside of Zhilta’s walls, passing beneath the gate through the bustling market, following the road up, up, and up into the College of Arcane Studies.

• A dome encases every wall and the ceiling, shadows rippling in the barrier’s likeness. Indistinguishable silhouettes drift along the walls and columns, some appearing to be in the midst of conversation, others sitting on the ground a distance away with books cracked open and quills in hand.

• I drop my invisibility near the center of the circle already in the midst of a lighthearted, jovial dance. The green sash normally tied to my waist flows after my arcing hands.

• The shadows take on five distinct shapes encircling me, all of them wearing the College’s telltale attire. They pass snacks between each other, their unspoken conversation conveyed through lively gestures.

  • Mem: You posit the idea of a cultural festival to your classmates and friends. Some of them are skeptical at first, but the enthusiasm is infectious, eventually drawing them into contemplating the possibility. You start brainstorming a list of what to include from food to events to games, a list that grows much too large for 5 students to manage on their own, but that’s okay. Once you get started, it’ll attract interest from others and will soon cascade to set the whole campus abuzz.

  • A raven lands on your shoulder, carrying a letter in its harness. Laughing, you give it scritches and open the seal.

• I do not see the dust devil made of shadow kicking up in the circle with me as I dance.

• It disperses into the looming visage of Professor Wysaqirelle, who I narrowly avoid twirling into by abruptly shifting my center of gravity, stumbling awkwardly but managing to regain my footing.

• The shadows recoil into a state of normalcy. Hiding.

• The professor somehow towers over everybody through posture alone, his mouth quirked into a permanent, scathing smirk.

  • Mem: You enter the office of Professor Taegan Wysaqirelle for the very first time, wary after a student dashed out of there crying. The professor sits at his desk, hands steepled atop it. He’s smiling at you, but his smile holds no warmth.

• Though my shadow shifts to avoid the professor’s notice, it betrays the growing anxiety behind my carefree dance.

• He, too, begins to move in time to the music, tracing intricate symbols in the air as part of his ‘dance’—if you can equate the two.

• He vanishes in a flash, reappearing to interrupt my path.

• Instead of fighting the attempted disruption, I laugh and lean into the challenge, improvising my dance by pirouetting around him.

• It becomes a game to see who will break first.

  • Mem: You’re mucking out the raven coop.

  • Mem: You’re running along the bridges.

  • Mem: You’re cleaning the classroom.

  • Mem: You repeat the punishments, voluntarily.

• I invite the professor to join me in my dance, but he is unbudging, tracing his runes with enviable precision.

• He splits into three into five until he surrounds me. I try to keep dancing but stumble and falter as he gradually moves in, making my circle ever smaller.

  • Mem: You visit his office every day to seek help but instead receive another earful about being a nuisance.

  • Mem: You hang a sunhat on the doorknob, a riceball tucked within so he can feel like he was part of the beach trip even if he wasn’t.

  • Mem: You apply adhesive to the torn quiz and place it with the growing stack, wiping away tears. It isn’t personal. He’s just in pain. It isn’t personal.

  • Mem: Your gasp is his victory. He declares that the test for this coming Fireday will instead be an exam. It’s Wealday. You can feel the frustration from your classmates and argue in vain. He found your weakness, and he knows it.

  • Mem: You don’t understand…. You’re doing everything correctly, so why can’t you cast? You’ve been working so hard in your own way…. The professor goads you from behind.

• Grimacing, I pivot and snatch hold of Professor Wysaqirelle’s wrist, reducing the many back to one.

• Cael: Enough!

• The shadows explode into a black kaleidoscope of memories.

• Each wedge, every column, and the walls in between all depict slowly shifting stills from memories already seen by the audience. They fold and unfold at different rates around various points within the sanctuary, adding to the dreamlike quality.

• Muffled shouts blended with various accusations make it difficult to parse more than a phrase here and there, but it’s all in my voice.

• Cael: I have lost enough time!

• Cael: Your methods are not…

• Cael: …the same students…

• Cael: Somewhere in that jaded, prickly thornbush…

• Cael: Dare to try again.

• Cael: We are not lazy…

• Cael: …incompetent…

• Cael: …incapable…

• Cael: You gave up first.

• Over the course of the next couple of minutes, the shadows begin to bleed together, swirling toward and into Professor Wysaqirelle’s shadow.

• Once all of the shadows in the room have vanished, he and I gasp simultaneously, him in surprise and me in horror.

• I turn and run, vanishing behind one of the pillars while Professor Wysaqirelle stands there studying his wrist thoughtfully.

• With a soft sigh and the tracing of a rune in the air, he, too, vanishes.

  • Mem: Your attempts at casting Meld with Chair cease as soon as the professor sitting across his desk from you utters his first apology. Did you hear that right? Did he just…? He says it twice more, couched between excuses for his behavior to protect his pride. The excuses don’t bother you, because you’re convinced he can change for the better. So, you call him Professor Wyse with a smile, which earns you a stern look of displeasure, but that’s okay. He’ll warm up to it someday.

• The shadows reconstruct the interior of Professor Wyse’s office.

• I peek out from behind the pillar, look both to my left and right before tiptoeing toward the center to place a tea set on the table before tiptoeing out the way I had come, once again to the pillar.

• The shadows once again show the passage of time, this time including a shift in how the professor treats his students. He returns everyone’s tests without remark; he teaches until Cael raises their hand and answers their question without making a show of their ignorance; he answers his door when they knock and accepts the gift they’ve stopped by to deliver.

• Everything seems to be looking up.

• The final length of shadow ticks to its start once more.

• The caw of a raven, a flutter of wings, a small bout of silence, and then a voice reads:

• Bleth: Cael, they’ve taken Valen. Men in black armor came for him. We tried to help. -Bleth

• Mem: Heart slamming in your chest, you run through darkness. Valen’s hand holds yours, anchoring you through the fear as buildings and streets whisk past in an unrecognizable, confusing blur. A threat chases you out the city gates, beyond the barrier’s protection into the barren wasteland. A band of Light from the sky touches onto the ground, and your body vibrates with the thundering Rift. The threat is closing in. Valen veers toward the Light, tugging you with him. It’s so close, but your legs are burning, your chest heaving. You’re unaccustomed to running like this; you can feel your body slowing, but you cannot let that…that thing capture you. Both you and Valen need to make it to the Light; you won't leave him. You can't. You need him. Valen squeezes your hand, and as you both take that leap of faith, you glance over your shoulder to see a horned creature, massive, glaring back at you, its hand on the hilt of a sword, which it gives a slight twist. It vanishes, reappearing close, too close, reaching out just as blue and green whisk you away.

Act II

• Darkness curtains the perimeter of my stage, an umbra so dense even those who can typically see through the dark cannot.

• It’s unsettling.

• It’s meant to be.

• And then there’s the sound of rainfall, the snorts of a horse pushed to its limits, squelched suction as hooves clop through mud.

• There’s the rustle of someone leaping from the horse’s back before it has even slowed, the sound of a door slamming open, and a shout:

• Cael: Valen?!

• Followed by sounds of crashing and items being tossed aside and other doors thrown open.

• Then, once again, silence.

(Take it slow)

• The dome parts.

• The table is on its side, the cloth disheveled, the tea set nowhere to be seen. I sit where it used to be, my knees bent loosely, my ankles crossed. My arms drape limply over my knees. Dangling from my fingertips is a vial, inside of which (:37) sloshes a liquid.

• The shadows depict us inside a wrecked home. Splashes on the floor nearby could be either blood or something else; it’s difficult to tell.

• No shadows touch me but they do form three chalices between the roped wedges in front of me. I pay heed only to the vial.

• Pihm: For your past we have the 4 of Cups.

• I lumber to my feet.

• Hushed whispers echo a name from various points around the room.

• (1:35)

  • Efial: Efial. Efial. Efial. You are Efial. Cael is gone. They were worthless. No one needs Cael. You are Efial. (Efial, Efial) You are Nightmare. Be his Nightmare.

• I pop the cork, tip my head back, and down the contents, a viscous red liquid.

• Pihm: It represents apathy.

• Immediately the voices hush. The shadows wither and dissolve to their natural state.

• My arm falls to my side, my gaze locked on a fixed point while I open my mind to the Poultice of Fate. The vial falls from my hand to clatter against the floor.

• :01 - :24

  • I dance in a swathe of negative space, my movements fluid but mechanical, precise but emotionless. There’s a practiced grace to each lift, each sweep, each pivot, unparalleled in execution but leaving much to be desired in expression, like that of a life-sized doll.

• :25 - :48

  • Shadows begin to tick clockwise along the ropes.

  • On the walls they project the College of Arcane Studies. People’s silhouettes walk around, whole and laughing and chatting, save for one outline that walks with blind ambition. Some of the shadows wave to them excitedly, but they do not appear to notice.

  • :47 

    • The shadows crumple together, reforming to a small room. At a desk the outline studies, surrounded by open books.

    • The setting around them rotates, but they remain seated and writing as the room reconstructs into that of the lecture hall, where the Professor teaches.

• 1:08

  • Class ends, and the outline stands. The shadows change again, this time to the top of a bridge where the outline begins casting. The professor watches from nearby, but nothing happens.

  • The outline bows stiffly to the professor and walks away to repeat the process.

• 1:30 

  • I pirouette in counterpoint to the shadows ticking clockwise, my impeccable dance beginning to deteriorate as the outline on the wall grows increasingly agitated, living through the repetition of this static, impractical routine.

• 1:50 

  • Walk. Study. Class. Cast. Walk. Study. Class. Cast. Add in meditation with the growing frustrations, but nothing is working in this senseless rotation. Sleep disturbed, awakening panic, lost in the mire of this manic progression. No one else matters. Need to study harder, but it’s failure after failure after failure after failure.

• 2:11 

  • I lean. I sway. I reach. I pull. I lunge. I lift. I plead. Recoil. Push the dance harder, wicking sweat farther, stumbling, gasping, shouting incoherently. Gossip. Oblivious. Existing. Relentless. The walls are converging, the nightmares laughing, I am unraveling, no care to my wellbeing, meanwhile trapped between dream and reality.

• 2:32 - 4:15

  • Patra appears at the edge of the circle of ropes.

  • Patra, sadly: It was for your own good.

  • His form flickers into Matra’s.

  • Matra, fearfully: We were told how things are going to go, and it scared us.

    • Mem: Your mother sputters justifications for your erasure, parroting the shaman’s prophecies. She isn’t afraid for you; she’s afraid of you. In all but actual words she calls you monster, and it breaks you.

  • I heel turn but am intercepted. By Valen.

  • Valen, accusatory: I was taken because of you!

  • I turn again, clutching at the roots of my hair, but again am interrupted, this time by Professor Wysaqirelle.

  • Wysaqirelle, coldly: If you studied just as often as you socialized, perhaps by now you would’ve been able to cast.

  • I click my heels together and pivot, misjudging the distance between myself and the rope.

  • I trip, crashing hard into the floor.

    • Mem: You cast and cast and cast, your head buzzing as the light shifts the hours. Your form grows sloppy, your words slurring, but still you push on to prove you are good enough. You failed as a child, as a partner, as a student. How much longer will you waste people’s time playing at learning magic when you’re naught but a failure? You were the one who should have been taken!

  • I roll to a stand, reeling and heaving, stumbling as though the world’s tipping beneath me, spinning as voices accuse me of existing; lift from the ground, and insanity takes me. I thrash in the air with reckless abandon, my mind too young for this cruel desolation. Shadows gather ‘round, wailing in grief, heard by all, all but me.

• 4:15 

  • I lean. I sway. I reach. I pull. I hunch. I scream. I cede control. Lost in the darkness, no one can reach me, I hollow my heart to shelter self-loathing. Darkness is whipping to sequential spellcasting; I have been emptied but still I keep pushing, one final knife from the reflection of me,

  • “Efial”, smugly: Good enough? You never will be.

  • One final shriek, a chorus of grief, a sudden blast of wings unfurl around me. Mother Nightmare cradles me as we fall from the air, scattering to diamonds as our backs strike the ground.

(Silence)

• Silence.

• And in that silence, my reflection steps forward…

• …the illusion giving way to reveal a man. He has pale skin and gradating white to black hair. He wears an ornate coat that denotes his status, and he kneels next to me, leaning forward to whisper in my ear, somehow loud enough for everyone to hear.

• Maryn: Come to me when you’re ready. I’ll keep your friend safe.

• He straightens, pulling the hood of his coat up, looking eerily like the figure from the song as he strides out of the circle and disappears in a scattering of diamonds.

• Mem: Professor Wyse, seated at his desk, lifts his head as magic thunders nearby. Not uncommon, but…

• It continues in rapid succession. He’s on his feet, tracing the runes to teleport, arriving on the wall surrounding the College courtyard. The air tingles with the oily residue of Occult spell casting. You lie nearby, unconscious. Professor Wyse trots to your side before the guardians can reach you and inspects your condition for himself. Blood streams from your nostrils, but you have a pulse, albeit erratic. He sighs, allowing the guardians to take you to the infirmary as he himself walks to the nearest tower. It’s past time you two spoke.

• Mem: Your vision goes white. You hear echoes of laughter. You blink the sun from your eyes. A warm summer day. You weave together flowers into a crown, perking up as a voice calls out to you. Grinning so widely your cheeks hurt, you leap to your feet and run over to Valen, setting the crown atop his head. He looks up at it, then smiles at you, asking if he looks pretty, and you laugh. You laugh, but your chest aches, and you cannot place why, not until the memory fades, and you realize you were dreaming of happier times.

• A reflection of Professor Wyse stands from where Wyse himself is seated in the pews. His expression is softer than depicted in any memory, yet somehow that patient compassion looks natural on him.

• He walks over to my fallen form and, readjusting his robes, kneels next to me, placing a hand on my arm.

• I flinch away from the contact and turn, curling as tightly as I can into a ball.

• He gives no indication of leaving but neither does he apply pressure. He simply waits, allowing me, in my own time, to uncurl and push myself up to a seated position.

• I keep my gaze downcast and averted, making it plain that I cannot bring myself to look at him.

• He continues to wait.

• I squirm in growing discomfort from our silent contest of wills, until I just cannot take it anymore.

• Slowly I incline my head toward him, flirting with the idea of meeting his steady gaze.

• When I finally do, he relaxes and opens his arms.

• With a shaky gasp, I fold into him, my hands fisting the back of his robes into unkempt wrinkles. I shake with inaudible sobs, my head buried against his chest.

• He only speaks when I start to calm.

• Wyse: Any time you have a nightmare or need someone to talk to or simply want to visit, come to my office.

• Efial: …Any time?

• Wyse: Any time.

• Efial: Even if it’s three in the morning?

• Wyse: Even if it’s three in the morning.

• Efial: To talk about nothing?

• Wyse: Even then.

• Efial: But you are busy. I would just be bothering you.

• Wyse: …No, not a bother. I’m not too busy to be there for one of my students.

• Mem: You see another mosaic of memories, snapshots of tender moments spent in Professor Wyse’s office recuperating from your self-inflicted abuse. In many of them, you’re simply enjoying the comfort of his presence, talking about nothing while sharing some tea.

• Mem: But then there are specific moments interwoven within. As you’re leaving, he says it’s good to see you, and your heart flutters with a brief tickle of hope.

• Mem: In another the familiar fog of that state begins to disperse. You glance at the tea set nearby and walk through what happened to the moment you dissolved. Normally he’s the one who makes you tea, but this time you wanted to ease the discomfort of your conversation by reciprocating…

• Mem: You awkwardly shuffle your feet the first time you bring your books to his office to study, even going so far as to berate yourself for your neediness, but you knock on the door anyway, reminding yourself as you tell him that you’re not there to seek help; you just don’t want to study in your room.

• Mem: A few days later, he leaves a cushion on the floor to make your stay more comfortable. You don’t study that day. You’re too busy wiping clear your blurry vision, because this small gesture of kindness left your already raw emotions in tatters. This is a gift, and gifts are treasures.

• I stand with Professor Wyse’s help, wiping the tears from my eyes.

• The illusion shifts into a different person, a snow leopard catfolk who unsheathes one of his kukri. I remove my Vasakta and begin to mirror him through simple kata.

• We move with slow deliberateness, working to restore balance between body and soul. I take breaks often in the beginning, out of breath and doubled over. On the outskirts of the ring, the shadows titter. I abused them just as much as myself, and so they hesitate.

• (:37)

• The time between breaks lengthens; our kata grows in complexity. Stiff, jerky transitions smooth into seamlessness, and tentatively the shadows inch closer.

• I am one with my weapon, and it shows. As soon as the shadows touch me, crystals of ice follow the tip of the Vasakta. I lean into this unorthodox method of tracing arcane runes, the ice following through my movements, until the rune completes, and a ray of frost streaks over everyone’s heads to splash out across the wall.

• Frozen as though I’d been the one struck by the spell, I stare in disbelief at the very real motes of glittering ice.

  • Mem: Your professor wants to send you to Aerilon for the Planar Festival of Lights in his stead. Despite your recent mishaps and failures and shortcomings, he has chosen you to go observe this experience for yourself and for him. He truly does believe in you, which is precisely what your shattered confidence has been starving for these past several months. So, you’ll go, even if the prospect of mingling with such a large crowd scares you. You dare the tiniest of smiles as you leave his office that day. Assistant Efial.

• The shadows etch three large pentacles onto the floor, one of them beneath me, marking me the tip of the V.

• Pihm: For your present, we have the 3 of Pentacles.

• Within the other two, illusions of both Brod and Flink appear, both as humans.

• Pihm: It symbolizes teamwork and collaboration.

• Brod and Flink click immediately, throwing their arms around each other’s shoulders, leaning to and fro like a couple of drunk best friends. Flink breaks away and gestures for Brod to wait, the latter nodding emphatically, while Flink builds upon the anticipation and suspense of what he’s about to do.

• He hops over the rope away from Brod.

• The anticlimactic resolution does little to temper Brod’s enthusiasm, who follows in Flink’s stead, except he clears two ropes, landing next to Flink, who almost looks affronted.

• I turn my back on them while they goof off, kneeling to pick up the empty vial. I set the table aright, fixing the tablecloth as Flink proceeds to show Brod the proper technique of jumping rope, correcting Brod every step of the way.

• In the middle of the instruction, Brod turns to me, waving at me to join them. My expression flat, I hold up my hand and shake my head. He shrugs and they resume their shenanigans.

• I keep fussing over the table even though I’ve straightened it and the tablecloth to perfect presentation, continually eying Brod and Flink like a lonely child who wants to join in on the fun yet who must also maintain appearances. So, I straighten my posture and my clothes…and only then do I flick my wrist so a tendril of shadow skitters up Brod’s back.

• (2:30) He starts hopping and dancing around in circles in a lame attempt to throw off the “spider.”

• Flink takes his sword cane, aiming for the shadow as Brod starts to undress.

• In a panicked rush, I insert myself between them, pulling at Brod’s shirt to keep it on. Flink’s cane remains at the ready until I step back and show them my talents with the shadows. Flink squints at me and adjusts his monocle for a moment but then shrugs, waving for us to follow him.

• I try to resist Brod pushing against my back, but he’s far stronger than I, and so I begrudgingly join them as Flink once again gesticulates wildly to the rope and the floor, squatting and hopping to resume his lesson.

• I’ve been bitten by the bug of mischief, so I lift my foot with great exaggeration and step on it instead.

• Flink faints dramatically.

• Brod throws his arms up, and jumps to Flink’s side. I roll my eyes, looking up as I shake my head.

• I freeze, jolt suddenly, and clap my hands to get both Flink’s and Brod’s attention.

• Flink lifts his head up from Brod’s lap, and both their gazes follow my finger up to where the shadows oscillate in imitation of a band of Light.

• In a blink, they’re on their feet, Flink dusting off and Brod grabbing his weapons, just as a thundering crack tears through the room. The earlier discord is gone as we move together as a single unit to face what is to come.

• Mem: An undocumented band of Light mars the western horizon, red like dried blood with splotches of black. Ominous and foreboding, you’re just about to suggest getting closer when it Rifts. Cursing, you and your comrades leap to your feet, running toward the Light.

• :20

  • Shadows of flames consume the walls. Fires roar and people scream amidst devilish laughter. Imps flit across the ceiling. Buildings glide past. The sounds of clashing and fighting intensify, until the streets open to a courtyard where our silhouettes fight two hulking Barbazu. The Barbazu fall. The shadows spin into a wreathe of flame whipping out from a woman with wings.

  • Brod, Flink, and I dance in a circle around the table.

    • Mem: Your companions cower before the Erinys. You feel a similar fear rake across your mind, unable to find purchase. Magic. Anger darkens your heart as you bat it aside, straightening in defiance as the Erinys makes her proclamation that in 3 days, Hell will return to pass judgment on Shipton. (1:27) How dare she. How dare she threaten the people here. How dare she use magic to influence your emotions. Fine, let them return in three days. You and the city will be ready.

• 1:45

  • Three lengths of shadow tick clockwise along the ropes.

  • Shadows ripple out from the table to a montage on the walls.

  • Efial on a dais addressing a crowd, a group of guards tackling them into the mayor’s office, Idroth at his desk holding up tied hands, Hama raising three fingers, which grow into the silhouettes of Cromwell, Jaz, and Thane.

• 2:06

  • Mem: Men in suits enter the Pleasant Pearl. Looking to Flink, you turn your cheek and tap it. Flink swings, and the memory spins with you, sitting across from Cromwell negotiating a truce.

• Two lengths of shadow remain.

  • Mem: You’re at the docks, interrupting a brawl between the Vannush and Lurros Families.

• 2:30

  • Silhouettes comb the streets for Hellmouths; others deconstruct the tent. Professor Wyse teleports a group into a full auditorium.

    • Mem: You’ve been waiting for this moment to suggest lacing the Estates District with pesh. The room holds its breath until one by one the Families agree.

  • The ticking dissolves to one.

• 2:50

  • Shipton is a ghost town. Only the traps around the Hellmouths belie any sentient presence. There’s only the oppressive ticking, the remaining hand of shadow passing the exit and closing the distance to Phusyn. 3:12 As it passes the statue, explosions fill the room, and the city erupts into all out war with Hell.

  • Two Professors stand back to back in what’s left of the Bazaar. Chain lightning drops whole groups of devils. Off in the distance a speck forms in the sky, growing larger into the shape of a dragon gliding toward the city. It looses a shriek, blasting a group of devils closing in on the dock workers. It drifts to the side, covering the wall with its belly. The shadows twist, showing Vev’s guardians orbit her blasting devils left and right. She’s cackling maniacally. The scene pans back to display an overhead map of Shipton and the chaos unfolding, slowly zooming in toward the Estates District wall where the Families stand at the ready before the gate as imps gnaw and shake on the bars. Pihm and Efial step forward and begin casting simultaneously, shooting two blasts of light into the throng of devils. The gate falls.

• 4:20

  • Mem: You stand before a row of 18 corpses, triumphant after a long night of fighting, but a weight settles on your heart. Eighteen dead. Though not a massacre, 18 is still 18 too many. Sighing, you turn, and in a seamless transition the memory shifts to you standing before the largest gathering you’ve ever seen. At your back a fire burns, the heat almost unbearable. You deliver your speech unerringly, asking if Shipton was worth it, laying out everyone’s sins, declaring that it’s time to be better, together, because the dead deserve it.

• 5:01

  • Mem: The Erinys topples to the floor as she tries to fly toward the center of the church. A portal opens, steam belching from the inside as it begins to drag the Erinys toward it. She releases a bloodcurdling scream, scrabbling to pull herself away, blood streaming from her eyes as her wings crumble to dust and ash. She disintegrates, her face twisted with indescribable agony. (Slight pause) Deep, ominous laughter vibrates through you as 5:44 the portal slams shut.

 [First 1:05, then repeat 0:14.7 - 1:05.0 as necessary, fading out at the end.]

• This whole time, Brod, Flink, and I have continued our dance around the table. Each of our steps are distinct from the other, unique to each of us and our own experiences.

• Shadows crackle across the tablecloth like the blaze of a funeral pyre, ripples expanding out along the floor toward the outer edge of the pews.

• The moment is transcendental, shared alone and by the collective simultaneously.

• The illusions of Brod and Flink turn into motes of light that gravitate around each other, hovering over the bowl as I continue the dance alone.

• A musical, high-pitched song reverberates through everyone’s breast as the two motes come together and expand, unfolding into a radiant nightingale. The slow, rhythmic flap of its wings holds it aloft, its feet tucked under its body. The eyes, glowing white, peer through every individual within the sanctuary. It’s enough to steal one’s breath away.

• It faces me last as I land and pirouette into a bow, its head quirking from side to side as it regards me.

• Seemingly satisfied, it alights on the bowl, its wings unfurling to their full span. Tilting its head back, it looses another dulcet cry.

• As I rise from my bow, it flaps its wings once, dispersing into particles of light.

• In the bowl, where once it was empty, there rests a folded nightingale. (Nim’s)

(Silence)

• The sanctuary returns to its natural state, the shadows falling into their normal rhythm dancing to Phusyn’s lantern light. Clearing my throat, I’ll speak.

• Cael: Let’s take a short break here. I’ll be honest, I didn’t anticipate how taxing this would be, and I need a few minutes to recuperate so I don’t overexert myself, you know, like I’m prone to do. Anyway! I’ll sound a call in about 15 minutes, which should be enough time for me to be ready to continue, so feel free to stretch, mingle, chat amongst yourselves, and think some more about your wishes in the meantime if you haven’t. I’ll be nearby in case anybody needs me. Thank you for understanding.

INTERMISSION

• As promised, when it’s been about 15 minutes, I’ll weave some magic together to create both a visual and auditory cue, small bursts of light mixed with the deep pleasant chime of a bell.

• Once everyone has taken their seat and the chatter has settled, I’ll resume my post. And then, after another moment or two, my dance.

• The sanctuary becomes awash with the sound of water lapping up against wooden dock posts and stone walls. The shadows swell and subside to emulate the view of the Cobalt Lake from the docks. A shadowed circle rimmed with negative space rises along the horizon, speckles of light glittering across the lake’s surface.

• The shadows then appear to be running backward, the lake still in view, though growing more and more distant as they follow the wending road up the gentle incline. Buildings slide by, but most notable is the crowd of people lining both sides of the street, innumerable silhouettes shifting and bobbing and waiting. Only then do the shadows turn, displaying Brod, Flink, and myself at the top of the incline.

• (0:59)

  • Mem: You swear every one of Shipton’s residents has come to see you and your traveling companions off. Faces you recognize mingle with those you do not, and your chest tightens at this display of heartfelt farewell. A lump forms in your throat, your eyes burning with those inevitable tears as you choke on a laugh and start toward the docks to resume your journey.

• A bronze-skinned man wearing the robes of a priest of Therys enters into the circle from between a couple of the pews, his hands folded in front of him and a warm smile touching his lips. As I near him, I slow my dance and simplify it so he can join me.

• 1:50 

  • Mem: You and Dayton are the only ones left on the wall. Your chin rests on your hugged legs, and you stare into a brass bowl stained with the ashes of everyone’s wishes. Dayton takes the bowl and cradles it in his hands. Eventually he stands to leave, his words echoing in your heart: ‘There’s power in wishes.’

• Dayton’s visage shimmers and transforms into a halfling wearing his signature apron and half-clouded spectacles. We perform a shuffle together before the figure changes again, cycling between all of the people I’ve come to know and love during my time in Shipton: Holli then Vordam, Silas, Mure, Hama, Graim, the Filder Family, the Vannush Family, and more. My dance changes accordingly, from the more court-like soiree for Mure to a near brawl befitting Jaz.

• No group sees the exact same sequence of memories.

  • In one, you’re with Marbin, weaving a flower crown before Eddie’s grave.

  • In another, you’re pleasantly surprised to be receiving a bottle of plum liquor from Mure.

  • You’re staring into the deadened expression of someone who’s lost the love of his life, and then you’re decorating The Greasy Bone with him using the flowers Eddie so adored.

  • You’re giving an old woman a piggy back ride; she reciprocates when you throw out your back.

  • (3:44) You spend your Awakening Day alone in the grove until Brod arrives with a cake.

  • You’re playing chess with Maria, Salvanti with Cromwell.

  • You receive a toast from his stash of whiskey.

  • You’re sparring with Jaz, enduring the pain of Graim’s needle, tricking Hama into playing hide and seek, cooking breakfast for the Lurros Family.

  • You’re holding a fireworks parade for the denizens of the Shanty Town, immortalizing your victory over Hell with a mural on the Estates District wall.

  • You share memory upon memory, each glinting like the light refracting off a crystal chandelier.

• I come to a pause before Kosris and bow, extending my hand toward him, smiling fondly.

• Cael: I promise not to pratfall this time.

• Fear and surprise momentarily cross Kosris’ face, but it melts into a genuine grin. He reaches out and takes my hand.

• Kosris: Just try and keep up.

• Cael, laughing: I’m fairly certain I’m one of the few who can,

• I say as I pull him to his feet, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze to help calm any remaining anxiety.

 (Silence between pieces)

• And then I guide him through a slow variation of our dance first so he can get a feel for the steps as we circle around the area, as promised, remaining mindful of the ropes so that neither of us stumble.

• Simultaneously, however, Kosris retains most of my attention as I’m transported back to our dance in both The Greasy Bone, short lived as it was, and the cookout.

• Various members of the Lurros Family appear and reappear at fixed points around the circle throughout the dance, each wearing their distinct leathers and chains, clapping with varying levels of enthusiasm or lack thereof.

• Once Kosris has gotten the hang of the steps, I’ll nod to him to confirm that we’ll be increasing the tempo.

• The clapping intensifies, and the shadows tell the bulk of our story in lieu of memories.

• (:56) A Devilkin and Kayal walk along the street together, keeping a generous distance between them. Kosris’ gait is aloof. His tail hangs low to the ground. Alternatively, Efial walks with reservation, lacking Cael’s usual exuberance.

• (1:19)

  • Sourceless words reverberate through these echoes of memory, a patch-work quilt of treasured conversations from different points of my stay in Shipton woven together to be heard instead of felt.

• K: I knew from the moment I saw you there was something below the surface, that you’re not as open about the things troubling you as you should be. You’re either going to let people in and help, or you’re gonna keep everyone out.

• Similar utterances from Brod, Dayton, and Professor Wyse echo more softly behind Kosris’ clear voice.

• Efial: If what you say is true, then let me bear some of your burden.

• K, scoffing: I couldn’t ask you to do that. You’ve plenty of your own.

• Efial: I can handle it if it means helping a friend.

• K: A trade then. Yours for mine and mine for yours.

• Efial: Deal.

• The distance between the two lessens. Kosris’ tail sways minutely. Efial relaxes, uses magic to tap Kosris on the opposite shoulder. Without looking, he reciprocates with his tail, bringing them yet closer together. Efial exaggerates a glance over their shoulder, pirouetting a full 360 degrees. Frame shaking with laughter, they elbow Kosris, whose tail twitches playfully.

• K: When you have such an ingrained idea of you versus the world, you either blame everything on it, or you embrace it.

• Efial: I’m not so sure there are only two options. You could reject it. Prove to the world that you won’t be how it defines you.

• K: To me, I am a bitter, lying, cheating, slinking, devil of a man.

• Efial: When did you start letting other people twist your perception of yourself? You weren’t born with such thoughts poisoning your mind. You learned them. ‘Tell a child enough times that they’re a monster, and they’ll eventually believe it, become it even.’

• The two silhouettes stop before a tower without windows or doors. Kosris turns to face Efial.

• K: You know you’re like a hot knife?

• He bows with a flourish and winks out of view.

• A dot peers over the top of the tower. Efial runs off to the side, disappearing.

• The shadows run up the wall, past the top, angling down as Kosris lounges on a bed of pillows and blankets.

• From the side, Efial leaps onto the tower from above, landing with a soft fwump on the pillows.

• They start laying out their gifts.

• K: That’s the first time I’ve ever seen you Zone.

• Efial: I hurt Flink. I tried to attack you. (Pause) I could lose everything. My family and friends. My treasures. Myself. They could all vanish in an instant.

• K: And so you lay out all your gifts to ground yourself.

• Efial: They remind me who I am.

• Kosris sits up, and together both he and Efial construct a blanket fort.

• Efial: My real name isn’t Efial.

• K: No?

• Efial: No, it’s…

• Halfway through building the blanket fort, Efial turns and smacks Kosris with a pillow, which explodes in a shower of feathers, cuing an impromptu pillow fight.

• K: If you don’t want to say…

• Efial: It’s fine.

• Efial casts a spell to turn into a calf, ending the pillow fight prematurely by climbing onto Kosris and licking him.

• Efial: Sometimes you just have to face the pain.

• Kosris struggles.

• Efial: Caeleth Dultok Vandurai. Cael for short.

• Kosris gives up, falling limp, resigned to his slobbery fate.

• K: Cael.

• Calfial poofs back into Efial and rolls off Kosris, lying next to him.

• K: Well, thank you for sharing that with me, Cael. I think it fits you. (Short pause) You know, I’m gonna miss you when you’re gone.

• Efial: Likewise.

• K: Just so you know, you’re welcome back any time.

• Overtaken by a surge of emotion, I myself pull Kosris into a hug, disrupting our momentum. I hold us steady, slowing our dance to match the cookout’s. One final echo says,

• K, somberly: If your whole world is already here, why leave?

• Cael: Because somebody else needs you,

• I say as we end in front of Kosris’ seat.

• Cael: I truly could not have asked for a better second,

• I slowly release him from the hug, which he holds until I softly tap him 3 times on the back of the head.

• K, softly: Thank you.

(Silence)

• Taking his hands just to give them one final squeeze, I’ll step back so he can sit.

• Pihm: And for your future, the Seven of Swords.

• I look over my shoulder to find Flink standing where the last member of the Lurros Family had been clapping.

• Pihm: It represents deception.

• He undergoes his usual transformation, revealing himself to be Kitsune, not human. In his hands he holds his sword cane, the point directed at me. He adjusts his monocle again, and behind him, the silhouettes of 6 other swords take up the wall.

• Flink: The Occult cannot be trusted. Drop your guard to it, and the most terrible things can happen.

• He sniffs the air, then scrunches up his snout.

• Flink: And you, Efial, you reek of the Occult.

• Matra’s and Patra’s voices whisper in the background behind Flink, their silhouettes alternating across the wall as they speak.

• Matra: There’s a darkness in you.

  • Mem: You Zone and attack your Professor.

• Patra: We were told how things are going to go.

  • Mem: You Zone and attack Flink.

• Matra: You’ll get out of control.

  • Mem: You Zone and attack Brod.

• Patra: It was for your own good.

  • Mem: You Zone and nearly kill Jaz.

• Efial: You’re wrong. I know who I am.

• (1:32)

• Flink: Do you? Do you really, Efial?

  • Mem: Your illusion hovers over the fire, threatening and insubordinate. You will it to disappear, and it does not, instead rotating to look at you with equal parts malice and ageless sentience. In a panic, you tell yourself that it’s just an illusion—by the gods, you’re the one who created it!—but still it does not vanish, not until one of Flink’s bullets scatters its nonexistence.

• Efial: I’m not the monster you so desperately want me to be.

• Flink: No? You say you know who you are. Fine. But deep down, you know your fate.

  • (2:28)

    • Mem: You stop Flink outside the necromancer’s Ritual chamber, both of you reeling from the backlash of your study. You place in his hand a bullet, should the day arise where you do lose yourself and there is no coming back.

• Efial: Fate does not exist!

• Efial: Actions cause ripples. Those ripples beget consequences. Those consequences prompt reaction, and the cycle begins anew. Fate. Does not. Exist.

• Flink: Hm. And who, exactly, are you trying to convince here? Me?

• A pentacled glyph appears beneath Flink’s feet, and his form begins to change again in a cascade of diamonds that ripple up to the crown of his head, his fur giving way to midnight colored skin. As the individual becomes recognizable, Flink’s voice finishes his question from elsewhere within the sanctuary.

• Flink: Or yourself?

• I stare into my reflection’s hollow eyes from over my shoulder, my own settling into grim determination.

• Red strings thread a barrier between us and everyone else, fading to a faint ethereal shimmer.

• Behind their eyes there is no soul, just a vessel awaiting orders. Not even the shadows will touch them.

• Maryn: End them.

• In a blink, they’re upon me, Vasakta drawn, clanging against mine.

• Efial: This is not my Fate!

• I push them away, but as soon as their feet touch the floor, their blade is closing the circuit of an upside down pentacle. A volley of diamonds hurtles toward me.

• I flow into my defense, deflecting projectiles with my Vasakta while blocking others with a petaled shield made of black and purple shadow.

• Ours is an even exchange of magic and melee, shadows clashing with diamonds spraying forth from pentacles until I fail to block one in time from piercing my shoulder. No blood spills, just memories.

  • Mem: You sniff the poison but recoil, retching just from the proximity.

• My arm hangs limp at my side, but I do not run.

• Maryn: End them.

• I drop my Vasakta, which sinks into the shadows. My reflection presses the attack.

  • Mem: You take a sip, and though it numbs your tongue, your mind does not.

• Exploiting what openings I can, I regain lost ground as darkness clashes with nothing.

  • Mem: Over a quarter of the liquid remains. Steeling yourself, you toss the rest of it back.

• A diamond cuts through the shadows and punches into my chest.

  • Mem: The numbness seeps into your mind, threatening to erase you. Your instinct is to fight it.

• I double over, dropping into a kneel. My reflection approaches.

  • Mem: You instead soften your awareness, observing the numbness pass through you.

• Maryn: End them.

• They lift their Vasakta for the killing blow.

  • Mem: You are unaffected by the poison. You are aware and whole.

• I snap my arms up and out. The shadows latch around their wrists, yanking them back onto the floor into the center of the 7th and final pentacle. Their Vasakta clatters away, dissolving.

• Heaving, I grab my Vasakta from the shadows and crawl over to them, hoisting one leg over their stomach to straddle them, yelling

• Efial: No more setbacks. You shall control me no longer!

• I grip the hilt, rest the other hand on the pommel, lifting the Vasakta as high as I can over their chest.

• Their eyes are unblinking.

• Maryn: End them!

• I plunge the blade toward them, yelling,

• Efial: You’re nothing but a mon—!

• (6:58 on the dot)

  • (Gasp)

• Cael: Oh.

Act III

• I’ve stopped short of ending them, the tip of my Vasakta pressed to their chest but not piercing it. The shadows continue to bind them to the reverse pentacle on the floor.

• Still straddling their stomach, I lift my weapon away and set it aside, placing my head in my hands.

• (Sob laugh)

• Cael: What a day for revelations.

• (More broken laughter)

• Cael: How many of us mutilate ourselves carving away at our imperfections? My fears, my traumas, my shortcomings, everything I believed I wasn’t allowed to feel I foisted upon you. ‘For my own good.’ What a simple, believable, convenient, insidious lie we tell others and ourselves to ease our conscience of guilt.

• (Pause)

• Cael: ‘I’ am loved; ‘you’ are the monster. ‘I’ am success; ‘you’ are the failure. ‘I’ am good enough; ‘you’ are not. I am the light and you are the shadow, and what use is a shadow in a world full of light?

• Cael: I’ve been deceiving myself, thinking I knew who I was. The truth is, light is nothing without its contours of shadow. I am a progeny of shadow. I exist to show others how brightly their light can shine.

• I lift my head from my hand to look down at my reflection.

• Cael: I see you. I finally see you.

• Grabbing my Vasakta, I sheathe it and let the shadows fall away, freeing them.

• I help myself up to our feet and embrace them tightly, saying,

• Cael: And I accept you. I accept me, imperfections and all.

• I’m crying and laughing as we stumble in an awkward, stationary circle. After only a moment, I reciprocate my own hug, laughing and crying and echoing,

• Cael: I am seen. I am seen. I am seen, (:40) and I am accepted.

• We are a momentary after-image, or maybe a projection, until we meld into one and I am left hugging myself, still laughing, still crying, still twirling in a circle, but now I am whole.

• I slow to a stop and draw my hands to my chest once more, my eyes closed to savor this moment of inner peace.

(Pause)

• There’s a tug on my awareness. Yet behind my eyelids the flicker of Phusyn’s flame distracts from whatever it is my senses seek to perceive.

• I recall a phrase marked in the pamphlet given to me by Father Ambien, and I repeat it.

• (:22)

  • Cael: ‘Blind thyself to the world so thou mayest cometh to know Fate.’

• On instinct, I remove both the Vasakta and sash from around my waist, storing the former beneath the table for safekeeping. Regarding the statue, I lift the sash toward my eyes, pausing, glancing once more at the depiction of Fate.

• (1:08)

  • Cael: You and he are not the same. (Pause) (1:19) I trust you.

• I wrap the sash twice around my eyes with plenty to spare for tying.

• Cael: I trust you.

(Take your time)

• The effect is immediate and disorienting, what normally takes minutes on a good day of meditating snapping into place instead, the branching of my awareness via the shadows a rush across the entirety of the sanctuary instead of the usual crawl, with the synchronicity between the shadows and myself off just enough to make me dizzy. With the world around me tilting, I sink to my knees before I can fall, holding up my hands to discourage anyone who may feel so inclined to hurry to my side.

• The sanctuary becomes awash with sound, whispers speaking over one another so the syllables elide into senseless white noise.

• After a moment of listening and concentrating, I recognize the language and respond in kind using the language of shadows,

• Cael: Speak clearly. I cannot understand you.

• Whether they understand the command itself or merely the feeling behind it, the whispers coalesce until they become a soft-spoken chant.

• ‘Release,’ they say, and it thrums within me. ‘Release. Release. Release.’

• Cael: Release what?

• I ask in Shadowtongue.

• I cannot tell if they’re commanding, begging, or instructing me. They might not even be speaking to me at all. But no, the shadows are as aware of me as I have always been of them, and now they know I can hear them. Yet instead of clarifying, they repeat their mantra.

• The buildup of pressure in my head combined with the whispered chanting and the imperfect synchronization with the shadows is making it difficult to tell up from down. My awareness keeps fluctuating between expanding through the shadows and then contracting into my own limited perception. I have to place one hand on the floor to orient myself while I hold my head in the other.

• I need to do something, or I’m going to pass out.

• ‘Release,’ the shadows say.

• So, regardless whether or not it’s directed at me, I let go of myself.

(Silence)

• The rest clicks into place like a dial slotting into perfectly crafted grooves, and the singular ‘Cael,’ melts into the plural.

• We are Cael. We are Nim. We are shadow, and we mould to all touched by light. Cael is our body, and our body is another appendage we can control through our shadow.

• Yet there’s more to it than just a collective consciousness.

• We stand, and as we stand, we feel the scattering of beads across our skin like granules of sand, collecting into a mantel of shadow draped around our shoulders. We touch not just the seen but the unseen as well. Everything casts a shadow, from the largest statue to the tiniest speck of dust, and every breath, every twitch of movement releases a cascade of ripples through the unseen.

• Like all shadows, these floating beads can be shaped by a skilled enough sculptor. We’ve just never been able to shape them ourselves.

• That’s what the conductor is for.

• ‘Cael’ is the one who gives us form through their sweeping gestures, and we play, unbound by our mirror light, corkscrewing up into twisted stalagmites, melting, bursting out into crystalline spider lilies that splash back into the floor, then run up between motes of dust like paint along yarn, becoming an inverse star field of nonsensical constellations that snap into alternate formations on the fly.

• We return the favor unto ‘Cael’, expanding upon the mantel to dress our body in the long raiments befitting a ruler of Night. We flow like sheer fabric without impeding their movements, wispy yet elegant. As a finishing touch, we weave a crown atop their head made of shadowed flowers.

• That tug on our awareness returns, flirting around the edges of our periphery, glinting like a strand of spider silk, and then vanishing, glinting and then vanishing.

• The third time it glints, we catch and follow it through Cael’s blindfold, a thread—no, several threads—oscillating separately from us. They spill out from our chest, some brighter than others, vibrating at different frequencies as they bind us to all living beings within the chamber.

• We are curious, and so we strum the threads, and the threads chime like clinking glass bells.

• We are curious, and so we choose one to pluck at random, and a warm resonance hums through us. We pluck another, and a lower pitch sings with a familiar sound.

• Cael, gasping: The singing bowls,

• I say.

• We laugh airily, both within and without the shadows, tapping a finger to each of the threads. Pieces of us travel along the strings in kind to each individual present.

• Still laughing, we pirouette, our threads spiraling around us without entangling us, and we glide into another dance, blindfolded but far from blind.

• We flow in imitation of water but with the viscosity of clouds, following Cael’s direction as they conduct us through feather light steps while we in turn guide them through their full breadth of surrender so that they, too, move in ways they would not have previously dared. (1:00) No inhibitions, no hesitancy. Our intimate melding would leave most lovers jealous, not because of physical pleasure but because of our unquestioning, unwavering trust.

• (1:20)

  • Through all of their doubts and misgivings and victories and defeats, we have always been there ready to serve, if only to be seen, and now we are seen, we are heard, we are felt, and we are touched.

• (1:50)

  • We skate as though on ice, frictionless and effortless, and we follow each sweep and spin and arch with our own splash of expression as we play at being their echo, taking their form as we dance in their wake, wispy and more feminine.

• They turn, and we sense ourselves as we sense them, a reflection into a reflection into a reflection into infinity.

• (2:22)

  • A shadowed fiber connects even us, and we bow simultaneously before resuming our dance, touching our palms and fingertips together as we mirror our steps, then reverse and continue in the opposite direction.

• We splash into nothingness and reform in a pirouette around ‘Cael.’

• We strum and pluck the threads, echoing the resonance with a whispered hum to a song only we can hear.

• (2:50)

  • Except maybe we don’t have to be. We begin sharing the memory of our present with our audience in a transcendental union of consciousness, for what are memories but experiences born during each and every moment of our lives?

• They are the ones who have composed the song to which we now dance. If even one person were absent or an extra present, it would be an entirely different song, so is it not a miracle for us to share this bond now, from stranger to family? Nobody will leave this church unchanged or untouched by what they’ve experienced, ourselves included, for though I may follow no god, I would be a fool now to believe anything but the existence of their realities living within me.

• We are, all of us, a single thread of Fate capable of weaving into the Fates of others and forming a tapestry unique to each of us. We influence Fate through every choice we make, just as every breath and gesture moves the imperceptible shadows.

• (4:10)

  • Yet we are not just a piece of Phusyn. We are Therys. We are Nudon. We are—and we laugh as we all come to the same understanding of the goblins and their god—a piece of Grancha, and Grancha is a piece of us.

• Whether or not the gods live, it doesn’t matter. They exist within.

• Our hold on the union falters, and one by one those in the audience return to themselves as separate individuals once more until we are all that remain.

• We finish our dance with the same light-footed-ness with which we started as both shadow and flesh, twirling to a halt in a partial (5:17) bow, ‘Cael’ toward Professor Wyse, and us toward Patra.

(Silence)

• The shadowy strings dissipate, and the rest of the shadows fall into silent repose except for the wispy robes and mantel that cling to ‘Cael’s’ body and what we use to perceive our surroundings.

• After a momentary breather, we rise and splash back into the shadows as ‘Cael’—as we—approach Professor Wyse.

• We hold out our hands to him, grinning.

• Cael: Don’t worry, Professor. I won’t ask you to dance with me,

• we say, pulling him to his feet. Removing the mantel and cloak from our own shoulders, we throw it over his, an unnecessary excuse we use to hug him.

• Cael: I just wanted to say thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for being Professor Wyse.

• Through the squeeze on our shoulder to the clearing of his throat, we feel the emotions he so often struggles to express. We tighten our grip, pouring all of our love for him into the gesture, and hold the hug for a moment longer before letting go.

 [Find Music]

• Taking a step back, we bow politely toward him while he takes his seat and then step over the rope to approach Patra, hesitating for a breath when we sense the inevitable but fleeting apprehension from his envoy.

• We smile faintly but say nothing. They know we can sense those feelings. No need to put them on the spot.

• Removing the flower crown from atop ‘Cael’s’ head, we place it on Patra’s own, bowing politely to him as well and saying,

• Cael: You needn’t feel obligated to accept…but will you dance with me? Patra?

• We feel him smile, and his smile is just as we remember, and it does wonders to ease the tickle of uncertainty when he rises.

 (Silence?)

• Sol: I do accept.

• Cael: Opportunity for you to shine. You lead or I?

• Sol: I’ll follow as adequately as I am able.

• Taking his hand, we pull him to the center between the table and the pew, saying,

• Cael: And here I thought I leaned heavily into formalities.

• Sol: Where do you think you got it?

• Cael: Well, certainly not Valen.

• He chuckles, and then we’re quiet for a time as we lead him in a slow, circular shuffle. We’ve been putting up a strong front for everyone else, but we—both ‘Cael’ and the shadows—are nearing our limits, riding that line between exhaustion and overexertion.

• So, we keep it simple. (:32)

• Sol: I’m proud of you, my Little Shadow.

• Cael: Little ol’ me? (Chuckle) I do believe you just answered your own question though, Patra.

• Cael: I am, and always will be, your Little Shadow.

• Sol: I’m so sorry…I…

• I shake my head.

• Cael: You echo my professor. (Pause) I didn’t give him the quick and easy answer either.

  • Mem: You place on the desk between you and your professor the reconstructed collection of tests and quizzes bound in some twine. A rolled up scroll of Mending rests atop them. You push the stack toward him, proud of how far he has come. You weren’t sure how forgiving himself would manifest, but you know without a shadow of a doubt that Professor Wyse has accepted the ugliness of the past. Now, you both can finally move forward together.

• (2:09) Cael: I may never recover the past 30 years of my life,

• I say,

• Cael: but I still have my present and my future, and I want to make the most of them with you and Matra.

• I hug him tightly.

• Cael: I forgive you, Patra, and I love you.

• Sol: We’re going to do everything we can to make things right. Cael.

• Cael: I know. (Pause) Thank you for believing in me, Patra.

 [Figure Out Music Situation]

• Within his warm embrace, we feel almost like a child again, and we savor the warm protection it offers for as long as we are able.

• It’s only because we have a performance to finish that we begrudgingly let go.

• We bow to him one final time, which he mirrors briefly before returning to his seat. We do the same for his envoy before turning toward the table in the center of the chamber. There’s one final portion of the story we have yet to address, an element that has been pervasive but mostly in the background.

•  We fill the sanctuary with the sound of rain, and shadowy droplets fall, kissing every exposed surface. We incline our head skyward to where the shadows oscillate once more in imitation of a band of Light. Shortly thereafter, the moon from the Plane of Night reappears in front of Phusyn’s lantern.

• A crystalline stalagmite encases the table, its multi-faceted surface glinting. Vegetation spreads out across the floor once more, lush with colorful insects and flora.

• We take a moment to recall our revelation near the start of the performance and cannot conceal the shudder that quivers through us as we once more follow those threads and the parallels we have personally experienced. We have one chance to do this correctly, and so we begin to sing.

•  Cael: There was a time our world was beautiful…

• Mem: Drenched, you pause in your casting long enough to glance up at the Rifting sky, the Plane of Water depositing what you calculate would be a fatal density if it struck anyone…and your group is directly below it in that bowl of a valley. Calming your racing heart, you finish the spell, vanishing from the Material Plane altogether, as the shadows transport you to the safety of the interstice.

• A shadowy scar cracks along the middle of the ceiling, heading straight for the moon.

  • Mem: You sit on a cliffside, alone, overlooking the lake-filled valley that was once the road leading to Ezada. You’re soaked but not yet ready to return to the castle, taking a rare moment to sulk. Light blue cracks scar the western sky. You need to fix it, but you don’t know how, and since you don’t know how, you need to speak to the one druid who might. You need to try to get through to Zreslon, to stop him before it’s too late. Failing that, to protect this world you love so dearly, you need to study Shadow Ezada’s barrier to try and replicate it here, but to do that, you need to remove the threats that would obstruct you, but you need to save your world first before he becomes collateral. Gods, and you might be meeting your father on the morrow and need to consider what you will do if he alleges himself with—no, stop, you tell yourself. You cannot afford to despair. There’s simply too much to do. So, with a shaky exhale, you teleport away from that rocky cliffside.

• Gone are my pristine vestments. The robe has become a rent and tattered dress; our hair is disheveled. A chipped and crooked circlet rests above our brow, veiled in the back. We are a ruler fallen from grace, and etched within the shadows over our breast is an upside down pentacle, visible to all as we begin a slow, somber dance that gradually becomes more intense.

• Cael: That Palktuk began with good intentions…

  • A hooded figure passes through the pews and approaches the table, his features hidden. He touches the crystal.

  • Mem: You see Zreslon touch the monolith, and a helix of arcane runes spin around his forearm. He lifts his other hand to the sky.

• Cael: …to reunite the Planes, ending instability.

  • The crystal darkens, purple electricity skittering across its surface. A streak of light shoots toward the sky from the hooded figure’s raised hand, and the moon cracks.

  • Mem: You watch a vacuous hole develop. Lightning streaks from its center. Various colors pour through, Lights belonging to different Planes, and they spread across the horizon in a watercolor haze.

• Cael: In what he calls the Prime Convergence…

  • A shrill cry resounds within the church. Kalduin alights on the crystal, striking at the figure.

  • Mem: You see a wyvern, Tazinyn, charge at Zreslon, but he vanishes.

• Cael: …he’d restore harmony across existence.

  • Electricity ropes around Kalduin, binding it to the crystal. Its feathers bleed into black, 2 pairs of red eyes opening on either side of its head. Its trilling cries twist into bone-chilling screeches.

  • Mem: You witness tendrils of shadow latch onto Tazinyn, corrupting her.

• Cael: Yet his plans would do naught but repeat history…

  • The newborn raven melts into the shadows, escaping its prison.

  • Wispy silhouettes of worshipers kneel on the floor, praying to Phusyn.

  • The vegetation filling the circle rots and withers.

  • The people convulse and become something monstrous.

  • Mem: Tazinyn rushes you, covered in cysts and corruption. She sees through your invisibility.

• Cael: …stealing precious life through war, bloodshed, and strife.

  • The shadows become a family running from the desert sands of Ara, one child in the father’s arms, the other pulled stumbling along by the mother.

  • Mem: You see into a future that has yet to come to pass, creatures you’ve only ever heard about spilling blood beneath a cracked sky.

• Cael: So hear ye, take heed the tale of broken Night…

  • Shadow Walkers pass through the audience like specters, through a star-domed barrier, never to return.

  • Mem: You find the heart of the Fallmond Grove pulsing with corruption.

  • Mem: You find the heart of the woods near Willowdale pulsing with corruption.

• Cael: …to know Aefala’s plight and restore the Planes to full.

  • The shadows spin into a zephyr around the crystal, kicking up into a savage vortex within which the red eyes glow. It pulls us in, our dance a fever pitch.

  • Mem: You heal the heart of the Fallmond Grove.

• Cael: Restore them to full…

  • The shadows burst outward in a beat of Mother Nightmare’s wings. She lunges at me.

  • Mem: You heal the heart near Willowdale.

• Cael: Night must be made whole….

  • The palm of my hand meets her and stops her. A golden white light repels her, engulfs her.

  • Mem: Your vision is swimming. Nevertheless, you reach up and touch the final cyst on Tazinyn. It bursts, freeing her from her corruption.

(Silence)

• Cael: You’ve been calling for help all this time…

• …haven’t you,

• we say.

  • Mem: You’re together with Valen beneath the Weeping Moon Tree. He’s on the ground, his back covered in mud as he gawks up at you…

• Cael: But we chose to vilify you.

  • The golden white light swirls around the raven, forming a sphere with occasional veins of shadow whipping along the current. It gradually shrinks in size.

• Cael: Zreslon is right. The Planes do want to heal.

  • Mem: You see the vision of a war ravaged future, but it no longer carries the same weight of inevitability when perceived through the lens of your own ability. It invigorates you, because you know you can help.

  • The light sprouts into a white-feathered raven that touches down onto our cupped hands, clasping them with its black talons. Its golden eyes flash each time it blinks, reflecting the lantern light.

• Cael: But Zreslon has misinterpreted the signs.

  • Mem: You cannot believe your eyes, but no, no, that dragon is definitely real. It soars overhead, its scales a blinding white, its screeched reply to your mental connection causing your mind to spasm in pain as its prerogative is felt more than spoken. ‘Protect.’

  • We turn our hand so the raven can sidle onto it and climb along our arm. It leans into our fingers as we give it scritches and floofs its feathers, purring.

• Cael: It is up to us now.

  • The raven takes caws and flight as the torn and tattered vestments made of shadow dissolve. In their place, we debut the garb Valen first gave us, no longer the deep and muted colors of Shadow Ezada’s style but more bold and daring, white with lavender trim, the overlapping 7 crescent moons representing The Sky Watch emblazoned on the back in full intricate detail. A smaller insignia rests upon the left breast, and feathers stand out along choice areas of the trim.

  • Before the bowl and the state of Phusyn, we clap our hands and bow as the raven circles overhead.

(Silence)

• Cael: My path is clear to me.

Epilogue

• I remove my wish from a pocket at my side, still bowing, and offer it up as though in prayer before laying it within the bowl next to Nim’s.

• With a deep inhale, we lean into our final dance, one usually performed at festivals and funerals, a traditional dance that is more about paying reverence than it is about self-expression. Even so, the shadows themselves also dance in anticipation, swirling around the bowl in the same direction as us.

• The other Kayal will know this as their cue to approach the bowl one at a time to deposit their wishes. Patra is the first to start the process.

• By no will of our own, the raven alights on the bowl, observing my father, its gaze unblinking until he bows and places his wish within. It returns the gesture with a slow blink.

• When he goes to leave, it caws at him, demanding, until he turns, whereupon it tilts its head to the side so he can give it scritches, making it preen. It allows him to return to his seat thereafter so the procession may continue.

• The shadows ripple out from each person’s footsteps as they approach the bowl. For those who aren’t facing the statue or whose backs are turned to it, we guide them via the shadows to where my father and each of his envoy stood as they offered up their wishes, then loop them around the bowl on their return path to their seats.

• How much time passes, we cannot say, but by the time Professor Wyse brings up the tail end of the procession, we’ve spiraled out to mere inches from the pews.

• The moment Professor Wyse retakes his seat, we snap to attention and clap our hands, bowing. When we rise, we hold out our arms, raising them. The raven flaps, lifting off from the bowl, followed by all the folded nightingales, their papery wings fluttering as they right themselves.

• Cawing, the raven leads the flock into the very flames of Phusyn’s lantern. The fire within flickers and expands, and the dulcet cry of the raven mixes with the singsong tones of the nightingales.

• A bird wreathed in fire and shadow bursts forth from the lantern. It dives toward the bowl, where it hovers momentarily and then takes roost, becoming its own ever-burning flame.

• Walking up to the bowl, we lift it from the table and turn to Father Meai, beckoning him to approach with a nod. As he does, we bow, lifting the bowl toward him.

• Cael: It’s said that the brightest light casts the deepest shadows. May those shadows guide those seeking a better Fate, and may those shadows bring such souls here to this church so they may, if permitted, cast their wishes into the flames of Fate themselves.

• Meai: As Fate wills, so shall it be.

• Cael: So shall it be,

• I echo, and place the bowl in his hands.

This Week's Obligatory Cat Pic: Salad

I swear she's part goblin.