Schattenwelt - Forum

Final Entry

Silence waited at the threshold this morning. The crow?s eyes shifted impossibly fast, like a flickering candle reflected in broken glass. Her head tilted, once, twice? then again. She didn?t blink. Just turned her head sharp, as if listening for predators hiding in the walls. Her wings shivered, not from cold, but with that deep, bone-born sense animals display when storms arrive without clouds. She twitched her neck in sudden jerks, angular motions, adjusting to an enigma only she could hear.

I poured the last of the wine. Left an empty cup on the table.
There would be no riddles today. No spells. Just boots and a direction.

?Fine,? I muttered. ?You miserable little omen.?
?Let?s dance, then.?
?Show me what fate insists I see.?

She turned south and I followed, where trees no longer bothered with leaves, and the wind carried rumors even I could no longer hear. By dusk, we reached the cliffs; jagged stone stretching out over the ocean like a cracked altar. And there, Silence began to flutter.

Caw. Caw.

Her wings beat the air in jagged patterns, carving a shape only the godess might comprehend.
I looked to the horizon. And there it was...

A light. No moon. No star. Just a presence, bleeding through the sky like a wound caused by some wicked sorcery.

They say nothing lasts forever. That time wears down all things. But some of us remain. We linger.
Like the scent of smoke that remembers fire.

- C

Entry 23

I found myself in a room so dark it shimmered. Not with light, but with colors the eyes weren?t meant to behold. At its center stood a table; a perfect circle of silver, polished like a mirror carved from the orb of night itself. A reflection without source. A surface that remembered perished stars. And across from me sat her; dressed in night and hunger. Still wearing all three of her faces. Young, middle and old. Shifting every time I blinked. She poured... tea. Of all things. Poured it like we were old friends at a garden feast and not cosmic disasters waiting to exhale.

?It?s been a while,? I said.

?Not for me,? replied the young face.

?You drink too much,? muttered the middle one.

?But never enough,? rasped the crone, dry as ash.

She slid a cup across the table. I didn?t touch it. It steamed like prophecy, bitter and hot like boils upon flesh.

?What do you want?" I said.

The crone leaned in, shadows pooling at her jaw.

?You always want to know things. It?s very unbecoming of a witch.?

?Unbecoming suits me,? I muttered, holding her stare.

She smiled. All three faces at once. She rarely smiles? Not like that.

?The world shall stir and split, much like you once did.? the crone teased. ?Old names will gather under new banners.?

?That sounds rather cryptic... Will you tell me what is expected of me?? I asked, knowing I?d hate the answer.

The young face did not blink. ?Would you do what you are told, daughter of old??
The middle one tilted her head. ?Would you choose the path if it led through everything you swore to leave behind??
The crone leaned forward, lips barely parting. ?Would it matter, when the thread has already begun to tighten??

The steam from the cup curled and shifted. It summoned truth I dared not drink.

?You?re not making sense.? I muttered, though I already knew.

The three faces laughed. ?I am not sense,? they chorused. ?I am the hinge in the door. The torch in the fog. What you follow is never me. It is the shadow you cast.?

The candle beside me went out. No wind. Only silence.

?There will be three choices,? the crone said. Her tone like embers cracking in old stone. ?You will despise all of them.?

?And if I refuse??, I protested.

?That is the third choice.?, The middle face answered, with a voice like tolling bells. ?Refusal is still a thread? and threads fray in other hands. As the world will forget, and bleed.?

?Someone always does,? I whispered.

She reached across the table with hands like bone shaped by shadow, and touched my wrist.

?The world shall crack into threes,? whispered the young face.
?Law. Flame. Silence.? The middle one intoned.
?Each flies a banner. Each feeds on names? on legends too stubborn to die.? The hag cackled on.

They spoke in turn. Then together. In riddles and scripture. Ancient lullabies no mother ever taught. Then all three leaned in. Shapes stretching across the silver table like twisted branches clawing toward the moon at night.

?And yours, Cydonia...?
?is an old name.?
??And old names... carry weight.?

?Why are you telling me this?? I asked.

?Wake up,? they said.

And so I did. Sweating. Laughing. The kind of laugh that feels like an accident. I poured myself a drink and cursed the dream. It gave me nothing. Which, of course, is exactly something.
The tea was hot. The dream felt real. Maybe she spoke. Maybe she didn?t. Who cares if I?m mad; something will change, either way. And if fate expects me to face it, she better bring more wine.

Entry 22

A young noble from Trinsic came to my abode this morning with a sack of rye and barley. I told him to keep his gifts. I have no use for offerings that sprout mold faster than a cat lapping chain lightning.
He asked if his sick mother would live. I asked if he wanted to. He didn?t like that. They never like the truth when it limps instead of sings. They want clean certainties, golden prophecies wrapped in ribbons of lavish silk. Not the tangled skein of my work. I told him to leave before his thread pulled something loose. He left the sack anyway. I poured some of it into a jar. The rest I fed to the crows.

Caw. Caw.

I treated myself a goblet of wine, staring into its swirled red depths, thick as blood and twice as talkative. It helps me think. It also helps me stop thinking, which is just as useful, most days.

Caw. Caw.

They gathered on the windowsill. Three of them, all nerves and feathers and eyes too old for this ancient world. Glistening beaks pecking away at the wood, like little knives stabbing in shadow.

Caw. Caw.

One of them met my gaze. And within it, I met hers. She is watching again. Through wings, through eyes, through the endless void between. Not speaking, never that. Just brooding, as gods do, until the knife is halfway through your own ribs before they ask what you?ve learned.

I named the crow Silence, because that?s all she ever brings with her. Tomorrow, I may follow where she flies. Or I may drink until the moon forgets my name.

Caw. Caw.

Entry 15

Today, I ran out of wine. It wasn?t a problem. Until it was. In a moment of desperation, or perhaps laziness, I muttered the old conjuration. A simple spell. One I?ve cast a thousand times, usually while annoyed by rambling peasants. Words meant to summon liquid comfort into my waiting cup.
The incantation fizzled into smoke as the air shifted, once. Then nothing. No shimmer. No smell of sulfur. Not even a spark! At first I considered a semantic mistake. Or maybe I was simply tired from lack of sleep. But then I tried another spell. And another. Even the ones I once used to put arrogant fools in their place. Nothing. Just the stale shame of failure.

Something is missing, but not stolen. More like? withheld. My fingers remember the shapes. My tongue speaks the rhythm. Alas, the magic no longer listens. As if it?s watching. Judging.
Waiting? Like shadows suspended on dust. A test then! It has that stink about it. The kind of divine riddle that arrives right before something terrible. The sort of absence that teaches you what you?ve been relying on, and how little of it was truly yours.

Something is coming. I can feel it beneath my ribs. Like a storm curling its toes within the ocean.
And I, fool that I am, have only half my tools and none of my former certainty. If the goddess expects me to face whatever this is with wit and bad knees alone?

She?d better pour the wine herself.

Entry 1

They say nothing lasts forever. That time wears down all things. Memories, kingdoms, friendships? even enemies. Like the scent of smoke that remembers fire.

They once called me the Witch of Fate. Has a nice ring to it, doesn?t it? Though lately, it sounds more like a warning than a title.
But that was a long time ago. Before I left the coven. Before the chants soured on my tongue and the red cords of power and tradition began to feel like shackles. I was always the odd one; the wrong question in a room full of answers. Too critical. Too? quiet.

I never got along with the Mother. Nor the Sisters, bless their rulebooks and incense offerings. They clung to tradition like it was a raft. I always suspected it was just another noose. Now the air stinks of change. Like flat ale and creeping mold, settling in the corners of things that used to matter. I wonder what it means.

The Three-Faced Goddess stirs in my sleep. Dreams? thick as tar. Threads twitching. Old memories fluttering like moth wings behind my eyes. She used to appear in visions; a cold breath on the nape, riddles wrapped in ill omens. Cryptic as ever, cruel as needed.
But now? There?s naught but silence. Or perhaps something worse than silence. Fractures. Like wraiths without shape. Yet, I feel her. Somewhere deep. Pacing. Watching. But she too, has changed.

Or is it me?