Shadow Magic

Grasslands, Land
Illus. John Avon

Civic Guildmage, Creature
Illus. Andrew Robinson

Energy Bolt, Sorcery
Illus. Scott Kirschner

The shadow is not intelligent, but it understands certain things: hunting, tracking. Now the hunter of rats casts about, seeking the prey it has been promised, the slim woman. The shadow had thought the plains were deserted, certainly compared to the busy streets of its city; but now that it begins searching, it realizes that humans are everywhere in this dry land. It filters through the many traces until it finds one that seems right, a powerful and clean human spirit, in the gathering. The shadow is soon tracking the prey that the Great Darkness had promised. Slinking under grasses, shrubs, and even layers of dust when necessary, the shadow avoids the worst of the lowering sun.

By the time the sun finally drops close to the horizon, the shadow has found the sorceress. She is young, dressed in pale finery and practical leggings. She seems worried, but this is not the feral shadow's concern, except that she is unaware of it following her path through the tall grasses outside the city.

The shadow is not intelligent, but it is clever about ambushes. It loves the jolt of surprise, the terrified pounding of human hearts when it appears suddenly. It doesn't play this game often--it is far too dangerous--but now it scurries through the dust and sere grasses, looking like the shape of a cloud passing overhead. It creeps beneath the young woman's feet, then rises up like a small grey whirlwind, buffeting her from all sides.

The strategy seems to work. The young sorceress coughs and waves her hands to push back the choking air, without success. Her eyes are clenched shut, blinded by grit. The shadow's chill and ghostly claws tear her robes and scratch her legs.

The shadow doesn't expect the sudden change. The energies around the shadow spin and shift suddenly as its victim's soul burns momentarily brighter.

The shadow is frustrated by the changes it doesn't understand, but it is not yet ready to give up. The Great Darkness has sent it: it must act.

The energy bolt hits the shadow like sunlight spiked with lightning.

The shadow is not substantial, but the bolt is agonizing. Shreds of its mist-and-smoke body are torn free, and the dark flittering fragments float to the earth. It recoils quickly enough to keep some of its essence together. It flees the scene as swiftly as a bird's shadow, and no more than half the size.

Far off, in the heart of a hollow baobab tree, the shaman Bwire snorts in disgust and eases his control of the feral shadow's mind. Pathetic, he thinks. This creature, such a marvel as a tracker, has failed utterly as his champion. It is time for stronger measures. Bwire releases the bonds that held the shadow, letting it slip its leash like a dog.

The Great Darkness lifts; the feral shadow sinks into the welcoming darkness of a rock's bed, and gathers the gloom of the evening and the cool stone into its injured being. Restored, it drifts, looking for rats.

[What does the feral shadow do next?]
[How does the battle look through the woman's eyes?]
[What does Bwire do next?]
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