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05-22-2013, 12:43 PM
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Faint whinnies call out behind Rhiannon's shadow, some sounding almost like words, but once again garbled as the words of Crowley's own shadow was. She leads him through the caverns and up along a path once hidden, back to the surface. But as she steps, spots of shadow fall upon the cold stone and spread beneath Crowley's own hooves. Shadow latches onto the crafter hungrily as that tar once had, but cool and somewhat serene. It flows from behind him in loose tendrils, following him and becoming one with him. Rhiannon's own shadow fades as she draws him closer to the surface. Evening light appears, and an entrance to the world above beckons him. At the top of the incline she stands, nickering, calling him onward, for only a few moments more. The moonlight fades her image, until there is nothing left but the soft whispering of her voice, mixed with the voices of all dear to the crafting kudu boy. He may stand in the meadow and realize that so much of what has just occurred has been a figment of his imagination. He may doubt the reality of the tar, the shadows, or even the inverted world of the meadow. After all, there is nothing left to mark the event- no remaining evidence. No evidence, that is, but the black tendrils following Crowley's every movement, and the fading whispers trailing in their wake. [[Congraultaions! Crowley now has passive magic that manifests as black tendrils of shadow which follow him. The whispers described above may remain if you would like them to be an addition to the magic. Please update the records accordingly.]] |
