The fleshy body of the shadowfiend felt nearly weightless as it rested on the apprentice's legs. Absent were the wide wings and the prominent beak; of the creature only remained the least attractive features, the tentacles along with the bulging tumours that slightly spasmed. Alas, to take flight was not an option that night. Who knew if the aqir would be able to tell that the creature of the Void was not one of their own and attack it, or even worse, that allies would not mistake it as a minion in the service of the Old One? Hiding would be best, though the occasional chance of freedom whem in solitude would not be denied.
Krator wriggled on top of her, a rather disgusting sight. Celysiel would have perhaps tried to convince the fiend to adopt the form of Morinae's peculiar pet for the sake of study, but the suggestion had been met with great distaste in the past. Appearances could often be deceptive; Krator was not without pride. It would not reduce itself to the likeness of a small, defenceless creature walking on fat legs. Yet now, an additional hurdle had been born along the way.
She could not hear the Heart's voice.
It had surprisingly taken a while to realise that there was silence, something which had not found her since the dark era of Whitestep's tyranny, when the locket had been taken away. Now the myriads of voices which had risen along with the Old One, the endless laughter that had once been as good as a forgotten memory, had all vanished. There was perhaps meant to be gratitude for this. Sleep would now have the chance to come peacefully, migraines would meet an end. But without Krator's voice? She felt lost, blind. No different to that merchants' daughter so clueless of the world when she had first set foot on Argus. There was no voice to guide her, no voice to whisper the secrets of each shadow, instruct in matters of power. It was all gone.
Perhaps those runes were to blame for that; what else could it be? Oh, the temptation to remove them had been strong, yet each time if had to subside before the wisdom of superiors. They surely knew more. It had to be for the best. Celysiel looked at the released shadowfiend on her body, ears wilting. That contact was a poor substitude for their deep mental bond.
"We will practice the tendril again." she announced, feeling stupid in even doing so. There was a sense of wrongness in this. Krator never indicated understanding. Its voice was absent and shadowfiends did not obey the social protocol and body language of mortals. Its white slits, vaguely set above the wide maw, kept staring. It would still not change from the primordial form, seemingly comfortable in it.
With a sigh, the apprentice sat up a little. The creature's tentacles reached upwards, enveloping her shoulders for stability. It had always been a rather peculiar sensation, so foreign, yet so familiar alike, but the elf had grown accustomed to it long ago. Her left hand, unmarked, rose above the sands, clawed around nothingness. She flicked her wrist, trying to pull upwards something unseen.
Nothing happened.
With a frown of frustration, Celysiel sighed again. No, this was a mistake. There would be no we. The voice was gone. The bond felt muted. This would be the attempt of a monad. Annoying. She had grown far too reliant on the connection with the Heart, as it was meant to be. Just as most were not expected to survive without their limbs, she should not have to consider the Heart -its very voice- anything beyond an extention of herself.
It was what it was. With a deep breath, Celysiel sought to beckon the familiar power, for once deaf to its hissing whispers. It felt peculiar, to see the shadows weaved in threads between her digits, yet not hear their writhing. The build was slow, though once the energies had been grasped, to lose the connection would not be easy. The apprentice's fingers danced intricately in the handling of the amethyst lines, pouring them downwards and letting them seep into the golden sands.
Though they were eventually lost from sight, the link could still be felt. This time, when she flicked her wrist and pulled the caged grasp upwards, the attempt was not futile. Power had given birth to a tendril, slick and slender, with veins of midnight blue and fleshy black flowing through the liquid-like form. Triumph. The apprentice allowed herself a rare smile.
She watched as the disgusting appendage grew, always guided by her control. As it rose though, something shuffled in the sands, disturbed by the body of shadow which had invaded the landscape. Something was hiding below the veil of motes. At first, Celysiel almost stretched a hand to dust the sand away, though even the slightest movement made her aware of Krator's presence on top of her. After all, was this not practice?
The tendril bent over, trembling while doing so, its upper half digging into the sand and coiling around something. Grains descended in golden rain, shining below the dim, distant light of the apprentice's lantern. It revealed something square, large and thick; a mystery how such an item had been buried beneath the dunes so close to the oasis. Celysiel beckoned the eldritch appendage, which obediently presented the object to her.
A book. Bound by dark brown leather and secured with a belt, there was little doubt that this item had once served as someone's journal. She recognized the large symbol etched on top, that of a hammer crossed with a pickaxe. The Explorers' League.
She claimed the journal, though found great difficulty in resting it on her body without crushing Krator. Perhaps the fiend could at least tell that, for its somewhat amorphous form started crawling towards her upper body, its tentacles eager to spread all over her back. Like an eight-legged sea creature, it embraced her, resting its vaguely shaped head on her shoulder. Its white eyes seemed to fall on the book that now found shelter on the apprentice's legs. To most, the sight would be disgusting. To her, it was nothing unusual.
Celysiel carefully unclasped the belt binding the object and turned the cover to study the pages. They were wavy and not neatly pressed; one could only guess that the majority of them had been made use of, thus they had been stained by ink. Yet the very first one was relatively empty. Only an introduction was scripted in the middle. She announced the content written in the common tongue at once.
"This journal belongs to Ridmur Pyrebreaker of the Explorers' League."
Curiosity was a vice, yet sometimes to indulge was less harmful than others. The tendril crept close, turning to the next page. And eager to commit to every bit of another's obsevations, the apprentice began to read.
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