Shadow slave: In The Eye of The Beholder
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In the cluttered and putrid place of the outskirts, a man lay in one of the many alleyways. A tiredness overtook him as the nightmare spell began its work, pulling him away from this world and its troubles. Another death sentence on his frail form, already stricken by sickness long before. His desires, hopes, and aspirations left unfulfilled, destined to vanish like smoke before the eternal rest ahead. His cloudy grey eyes gazed up towards the lights beyond his reach—the more fortunate, living and existing without worry, enjoying the life that was thrust upon them. He cursed his existence, his place, a mere bump in the road of destiny, a single thread in the vast weave of fate. For a moment, the drowsiness lifted, replaced by determination that filled his broken body. He would make them know—not just of him, but of all the people forgotten in the rubble known as the outskirts. With one final proclamation, the spell took him. Who knew how far his desire would take him? _________________________________________________________________ "With every flap of a butterfly's wings it affects the wind surrounding it, tornados can be made in its wake from just coincidence. and with a swarm of these delicate creatures. even the earth can shake."-Thicc-potato_6372 (2024)
In the bustling path of the outskirts, a sickly boy shuffled across the damaged pavement, each breath a laborious effort. Drowsiness overcame him, attempting to pull his mortal soul into its warm embrace.
He sauntered further from the population, into the dark alleyways flanking each building. The enclosed walls felt comfortable to the boy; there, no one could witness his pitiful self slowly wither away, like the many souls barely known to the outskirts, only to be snuffed out, forgotten for all eternity.
Gravity found its purchase and pulled the sickly boy down, his frail body hitting the rough concrete. It seemed like this was it for him. His body lay not in a coffin but merely as trash to be disposed of quickly before it reeked. Yet again, the place already smelled horrible; it would not be surprising if they left it there, leaving the job to the rats and pets to feast upon.
The boy could attempt to fight back against the drowsiness corrupting his consciousness, but it was impossible. He was one of the more unfortunate souls, cursed with the Nightmare Spell, certain death to any street rat. But to him, already riddled with many diseases, it was not just certain. It was his destiny.
The dust-filled air blew into his corner, his weakened lungs attempting to grasp at any oxygen left, a desperate attempt to retain any such life for just a moment longer.
The youth thought of his legacy, of anything he had left behind, any small impact he had made in the dire world of his. Yet all he could think of was what he saw.
He was one of the few civilians to witness the horror of the great clans, the image behind the hope and endless propaganda that carried their fame. It had left him broken. Their experiments into the Spell were ventures they had to keep hidden, and like their many machinations, they used the outskirts to help with it.
No one would care about some children already rotting in those slums, so they took him along with many others, sending their wicked Awakened to pry deep into their bodies, souls, and minds. He had escaped this torture, but not unharmed.
With a sharp cough, he was brought back to reality, faint blood staining his hands, the red liquid dripping down his lips onto the gravel. It seemed his time on this earth was coming to an end. Whether it would be by disease or the Nightmare Spell, he did not know.
With his cloudy grey eyes, he gazed beyond the miserable rubble of the slums and beyond the dust, beyond the polluted smoke that filled the dark skies, and beyond the gargantuan walls of the border, into the vibrant colours of the inner city.
The lights seemed otherworldly to the bland palette he had seen all his life, the bright greens, yellows, reds, and many others entwining into a myriad of iridescent light.
It was beautiful, and for that short moment, he wished he could maybe, just maybe, witness its perfection once more. But it was beyond his reach—the more fortunate, living their lives without a worry, consistent food sources, clean water, and time to explore their purpose. Unlike others, he didn't have to explore.
His purpose was to be a figure, a statistic to the government, a horrific monster, to feed the Awakened of the inner city. To have no destiny, to be merely a single inconsequential string in the weave of fate. The reminder of his cursed existence helped put the small strength he had in his fingers, the rough skin grating against the concrete, the sensation in the background of his mind. All that remained was regret and righteous fury.
The drowsiness assaulting his consciousness faded only for a second, his proclamation screaming in the chambers of his mind. He would make them know—the government, the great clans, the fulfilled people of the inner city, the hopeless of the outer city, the corrupted Nightmare Creatures, and the very heavens.
Whether it somehow be in this life or the next.
Whether by word or strength.
Whether by passion or hate.
The world would come to know him.
Silas of the Outskirts.
And with a final thought, he fell into slumber, plunging into the darkness of the Spell.
In the darkness, a familiar voice called.
[Aspirant! Welcome to the Nightmare Spell. Prepare for your First Trial!]
