Jan 16 2017, 08:11 PM

it formed in the dark — there was nothing here now but darkness — yet still there seemed to be a luminous aspect to the surface. it grew, reaching, through the chasm of a doorway and sealed it. and then, as if waiting patiently for the days to end and the light to return, the chrysalis lay dormant. throughout the stone surface there seemed to be a series of spider veins, and in those veins pulsed the light of magicka.
gradually, the thing inside was formed.
it drank in the magic.
it became.
but it did not hatch.
the darkness was too much for it. like the flicker of an ember, or the steady dull burn of an old candle, the light of the magicka began to ebb — the light inside dimmed, transforming the stone from its pale, soft, inviting tones to something lifeless and gray. where once the entire surface had seemed to shine despite the obscurity (illuminating the bone spires around it with ease), now it was like the light came from behind a frosted glass.
then, days later, it was like that glass had grown too thick with fog. the light snuffed out.
and finally, it cracked.