ORIGIN

The black mastiff padded quietly up to the Spire, still keeping a careful distance. Its blue-sheened surface arced with energy, and he remembered vaguely the agony it had inflicted upon his ally Fisher so long ago.

This place was chaotic. It was harder to cast here, harder to utilize magic--it seemed to come in powerful surges, then ebb unpredictably. Too, this very same cave was where most of the grandest battles seemed to be fought. It was where Nemean would come to tamper with the lights--he had seen this, in the cave's memories--and it was where the powerful and the chaotic came to try and usurp the Spire's magics.

And so, it was where he must train.

He stepped forward, head low as he trudged on, looking for a good, even place filled with the crackle of loose magic. His shadows came sometimes not at all, here, and the powerful black hole he had attempted to make had backfired. He couldn't let that happen again.

At length, he stood, and looked around. This would do; he was close enough to the Spire, but the area just around him was flat and clear, and brightly-lit. Considering the fact that he used pitch shadows as his magic, it was a good location in which to practice.

I will begin, and it is not abuse of these powers, but practice, he thought. The words in his mind were respectful, as if he were giving his own magic a heads-up that he did not intend to throw it about flippantly, but to learn to simply use it better. He held this respect for his powers.

Quiet, he closed his pale eyes, a strange, ominous-looking black dog silhouetted by the ethereal magic of Polaris, and he concentrated.

He felt his black heart shiver and flicker with shadow. The darkness came, but it was faint. His coat went black--blacker than before, a puddle of not-light surrounding him--but it came too slow, too unreliably.

I must do better, if I am to fulfill my purpose.

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He focused again, clearing his mind of all thoughts. This was easy for him: it was his natural state of being.

Empty. Peaceful.

He felt the shadows swell more powerfully this time, and in silence, drew them around him like a cloak. He felt them gather, cling... and disperse.

Overreaching. Interesting. It is as if they are powerful, here, yet have a mind of their own, in a sense. Or perhaps the magicka itself does.

He turned, pacing toward the Spire, for a moment lost in his own thoughts. He could feel the magic, feel his ability to use it. Yet it slipped just out of his grasp each time.

"Is it you, that does it, I wonder." He addressed this quietly, idly, at the Spire itself--certainly not expecting it to answer (though given Black's track record of addressing inanimate objects, and at times having them respond, perhaps this wasn't quite a 'given'). The source of magic seemed to be this place--or it was a focal point for its disruption.

He was unsure.

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Black slowly lowered himself to his chest, and his forelegs stretched forward. He sniffed over the damp black rock, and then rested his broad muzzle against the stone. He closed his eyes, relaxing. He focused merely on calling his magic to him, rather than trying to put out the light.

He could feel his heart flicker with shadow once more, feel the darkness answer his call. He coalesced them within, and then cast them out, dancing streaks of darkness flickering over the stone, as if a fire were casting light over indistinct shapes.

There we are. Now, hold it... it is faint. Tenuous. But it is there.

He exhaled, closing pale blue eyes for a moment, then opened them, staring. He shifted, pulling his haunches closer, folding his forelegs nearer his chest. His pendulous ears pricked up, and he watched the shifting shadows as they moved, focusing on maintaining them--one with them.

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Now draw it in. Over the dog. Over this form. A shroud, all the forms, into one.

Black focused, though still relaxed, still empty, head still low as he watched his shadows dance from beneath wrinkled brow.

He concentrated on drawing in the shadows he had already been controlling--on covering his own form with them, on dispelling the light from all around him. His intent was to wreathe himself in darkness. He managed, for an instant--and then the shadows kept going, fading, until he was left in a glowing patch of light. He was brighter and more visible than he had been prior, by far, and with a sigh through his nostrils, he settled his massive head upon his paws.

Well, that did not work, thought the glowing mastiff. The interference is far worse than I had realized.

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It was some time before he returned to Polaris for practice. This time he came with a fresh eye, a fresh mind, and some measure of determination. Not that he hadn't had this before.

For a long while he watched the Spire. It was not clear what he was thinking; lost in unrelated thoughts? Wondering at the nature of the Spire, or its effect on magic?

In truth, he was remembering the image of the vast black dragon Raheerah perched half-straddled across it, claiming it as his own. I wonder where he has gone.

He turned, at length, considering. Eyeing over Polaris' ground, remembering the dragon's flames coursing up over the ground and eating at the sky. Idly, he tried to resummon a mimicry of the shadow the vast beast had cast.

There: it began to form, slowly, a phantasm of black cast over the stones. Great wings lying half-folded around the half-light cast by the Spire, the long head, horns at the back. The entire thing even flickered realistically, shifting a little this way and that.

The black dog watched, satisfied and content.
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