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Crafting Motif 57: Ebonshadow Style

Author: 
Romien Garvette of the Whispering Shadows

You want to be beautiful. Beautiful, and whispering. Whispering, and dark. Dark, and beautiful, and whispering—with claws, such claws. You shall be cold, and sharp, and dark. You will be Ebonshadow.

You cannot rest, you can never rest, so you might as well craft. Craft arms for Her will; craft armor for Her machinations. You are filled with dark nothingness, filled until you spill it into that which you shall make. And for that time of making, though you do it alone, that time alone will have Meaning.

AXES

Do you see an axe? No, it is a claw, a glorious claw, a claw curved like the night sky. With a claw like this you can open them up, wide open, and let the purple and blue come out. It wants to come out. Pick, pick the axe like a pick-axe, pick and let the darkness spill. And it shall spill.

BELTS

It wraps around you, secure, never letting go. Holds you in its dark embrace, like Her embrace. You're bound within it, but it's yours! You created it! Within your hands you have created this darkness, this shadow, this black belt that binds you. Holds you.

BOOTS

You're already sinking into the shadows, up past your feet, up your legs. But it will not devour you, no. You've shaped the darkness. You've shaped, and strapped, and it has become a part of you. Boots which allow you to walk between the shadows, between the worlds.

BOWS

It's cold to the touch, isn't it? Black ice. But your fingers don't slip. You grasp tight upon its ebony grip, and let the arrow fly. Piercing. It pierces through the night, true. Quick. It pierces your enemy's flesh, and hot blood pours out. Hot against the icy arrow. Hot, but you remain cold.

CHEST PIECES

You gasp, and gasp, but you cannot breathe. The weight of the darkness consumes you, pressing against the lungs, but now. Now you've crafted armor to protect you. Wrapped around your chest, against your dully-beating heart. It will stop the weight. It will protect you from that crushing weight.

DAGGERS

Her crows that laugh, and caw, and peck and peck. You must peck too. So you forge daggers from the darkness, small, light, sharp. Sharp, a deadly point. They must pierce the hot flesh. Feel the blood against your fingers, hot, but your hands are still cold. Watch the steam rise into the night.

GLOVES

Your hands are ice, cold, numb to all touch, but still you try to keep them warm. Thread the shadows, forge it to do your bidding. They wrap around your fingers, enticing, feels almost safe. They move your hands for Her dark will, but it's a comfort. It's almost warm. Almost alive.

HELMETS

Your head is full of secrets. Dark omens, Her will, the cawing of crows. Your mind is slipping, floating, must keep it. Safe. A helmet, yes, craft a helmet. It binds the broken pieces of your consciousness. Let your mind know only Her. Her will. She will love those broken pieces. She still has uses for them.

LEG GREAVES

You're broken, aren't you? Pieces missing, something missing. This! Yes! This will make you complete. Whole. This will bind you together. The shadows bind us together. Create this and be one. Forge this and be one. Finally, be one with Her shadows. You are not broken. You are complete. I am complete.

MACES

Smash them open. Her enemies, they're warm inside. See? See the colors, running down. You have no colors, but you can still see. You've forged Her will within this mace. Use its force against all others. They are warm, but you are cold. Feel nothing. Shadows do not feel, after all.

SHIELDS

The light will try to take you, melt you away. Their light. Their swords, their daggers, their maces. They'll poke and pierce. Try to end you, but you are shadow. Never ending. Let this shield block their light. It shall keep you in the safety of Her darkness. In Her everlasting embrace.

SHOULDER ARMOR

Her will presses against your shoulders, heavy, unbearable. But you can forge the darkness now. Your broken pieces are held together by the shadows, a tar that binds you. Become Her will. Then your shoulders have no weight, no burdens, nothing. A numb nothing, save Her.

STAVES

Your magic once was color, was warmth and delight. No longer. You gave that to Her. My Mistress has your color, but has given you a power. A cold stave. A crow sits upon it, watching. Judging. Watching as your enemies fall, as you fall into the darkness. Deeper, deeper, the deepest shadow.

SWORDS

A blade of black, elegant, deadly. Like Her words which filled your ears one night. The edge is sharp, unforgiving. It's hungry, don't you hear it? It calls for warmth. For blood. Those who dare defy Her shall feed it. Hungry, like her crows are hungry, like you're always hungry. For warmth. For death.