The priest woke up in cold sweat. His dreams turned nightmares left his heart pounding and his skin clammy. It was a black night. The great whitemoon Alba vanished from the night sky like it always did from time to time, leaving only the faintest glimmer of the blackmoon. A hungry void among the dark so black it was blinding. The stars were the only beacons in the night.

The priest felt the ethereal tide around him writhe in agony. A slaughter, gods above. And this close to Berowden. The priest got up and put on his black clergy robes. Robes that bore a red cross infamous for their blood-soaked history. He had to alert the guards and prepare for a cleansing ritual. The spirits have to be exorcised, or else we’ll have undead roaming the lands again. Or worse, it could rupture a breach into the Void.

The priest walked as fast as his staff let him through the torchlit streets of Berowden, his old age impeeding anything more than a slightly fast walk. His joints creaked, and his bones felt brittle. His patience was starting to run out, frustration building up at increasing levels. Damn this all to the Nine Hells. The Red Dragon take thee, you…

The priest extended his ashwood staff towards the night sky, chanting a holy verse in high Vitaen.

“Septem, qui regnas sub Oriath in caelum, da mihi lumen tuum. Sit fulgur effundam de caelo, ut ego effundam essentia, vita in verbis. Fulgur percusserit!”

[The Seven, who reignest under Oriath in heaven, give me your light. Let lightning pour out of the sky, as I pour the essence of life in words. Lightning strike!]

Light coalesced onto the tip of the priest's staff. It pooled up until it could barely be contained into an orb, its surface writhing and undulating like the waves of the ocean. The orb radiated white-hot light that hurt to look at. As the priest finished his chant, the orb shot up into the sky, a beacon in the dark. It reached its apex under the cloudless, starry void, thousands of leagues above land.

Tendrils of lightning emanated from the orb. Roots of light guided by the priest struck a quarter league away in the forest. Less than a blink of an eye later, thunder came. It was an invading sound as if emanating from inside one’s chest. Nobody slept through that black night.

The armless mercenary propped his back against the wall of a damp cave. It was barely big enough for him, and his feverish memories led him to believe he collapsed here because of exhaustion. One was barely tired during a fight, adrenaline kept them awake. But soon, fatigue came to claim its debt in double.

He was broken and weak, and yet he never felt as powerful before. The night was dark and the moons had all but vanished. And yet, to him, the darkness was not even a hindrance. His sight pierced the dark, although the colors were muted, making all hue indistinguishable from grey. His cone of vision was now a full circle around his body like he had eyes at the back of his head. The farther out he tried to “see”, the more blurry the image became. A few steps away from him were clear as still water, but after that, all was distorted like a muddy pond.

A smile crept up on the corner of the mercenary’s lips, the memory of the fight with the undead etched on his mind. He could remember every single little detail. The feeling of the strength behind his punches, and the warmth after absorbing the undead monstrosity’s black flame. Can I call upon it again? Is it even my own? It felt… familiar.

Though he could remember the strength and warmth, he could not remember how he manifested those black flames. It floated away from his mind like sand down an hour-glass. It was like trying to recall a dream, the more he focused, the further it slipped away from his grasp.

He tried calling forth the black claws that had saved him, but all it accomplished was to make his stumps smart again. And they hurt. It was like losing his arms all over again. That agonizing pain that left him feeling dizzy and nauseous.

His left arm had been cut just below the bicep, and from below his right shoulder had been lost.

A distant memory permeated his thoughts. One he didn’t even know he had, and yet was tucked away like scrolls written in ancient language with no one left to decipher it, leaving it collecting dust in the psyche. Well, any language really, he didn't know how to read. Might as well have been a dead tongue lost to history.

The memories came in flashes like light reflected off a polished blade.

[“Com’ on Barry, you can do it!” Said a woman with a warm smile and kind eyes “One more step!” Her eyes were kind and patient. Her brown hair trailed around her neck in a braid.]

Mother? How? She's so tall... I must've less than three winters old.

Other memories came cascading into his head. They came fast. It was hard to keep a hold of them, like trying to catch a cat that didn’t want to be caught. Well, any cat really. The memories were his.

Memories of his childhood in a small village in the Kewdeni North. The memories of his mother encouraging his first steps. She looked so young then, nothing like the wrinkled she-devil he left back home with his pa. The memories were intersped with small feats of curiosity and bravery, the climbing of trees, and the terrorizing of felines. The visions ignited the embers in his heart, providing the impetus he sorely needed.

It's almost as if mother's here. Why'd I have to leave the way I did?

Then came other visions. Memories that felt familiar and a part of a different time. A different life maybe. Barry saw a figure jumping from rooftop to rooftop in a city under the starry night sky. He never saw a city before. It was unlike anything he ever saw or imagined. His no-name village was far away and isolated from any actual city. And yet, here he was. Watching a shadowy figure jumping over the gaps between buildings and flinging tendrils and coils of shadow that gripped onto surfaces and pulled the dark figure forward. At the start of the vision, Barry felt like he was watching from the outside, but at some point, the perspective shifted. He was now the person clad in shadow. Darkness danced around his arms and shot forth like snakes.

A dance of shadows waged between the starlit, twin-mooned sky above, and the lamplit, alien streets below.

The mercenary named Barry felt a connection form between something separate and yet familiar, a separate incorporeal body nestled inside his own. Barry pulled at the connection like an errant thread of his battle-worn tunic, investigating it. He pulled at the thread, hungry for answers. He pulled at it until it snapped.

Instead of the connection between himself and the incorporeal body inside his own breaking, it strengthened. The snapped thread was not the connection, but the division between himself and… Whatever was inside of him.

For the first time in his life, Barry felt whole. He could feel it now, a shadow inhabiting his body. It had been there all his life, helping him and yet was invisible. Black shadowy tendrils drifted away from his stumps, wriggling like worms, but it did not scare him. If anything, he felt awe as the tendrils coalesced into shadowy copies of his arms like inky blood in the water.

After all, they were his.

The arms were slightly insubstantial and weak, made of the stuff of inky, black smoke that held no strength nor true weight. Nothing like what his vision showed him of the shadow-clad figure using the same magic. Barry’s shadowy appendages were less springy and flexible, instead, they were more like the vapor that drifted off from a campfire. Then again, shadows were covering my arms, not taking their place. Maybe I can imitate that later. I can’t go swinging from tree to tree in my state.

Barry let out a guttural laugh, tears threatening to appear. Whether they were tears of joy or insanity, he did not yet know. By the Gods. A little thin for my taste, but then again cripples can’t be choosers.

Barry pushed himself off the damp, cavern floor. His thin, shadow limbs almost collapsing under his weight. He felt the dagger at his right lung threaten him once more. The pain almost pushed him to the ground. He walked slowly over to the cave entrance, looking up at the cloudless, starlit sky. A hungry blackmoon—Vorus—gazed back into his eyes.

A bolt of lightning struck far away in the horizon, lighting up the void for an instant. And soon came the thunder.

A smile crept onto his lips.

Barry left behind the cave, slowly making his way towards Berrowden. At first, he couldn’t really tell how he knew where it was. He just knew, trusting his Shadow—the body inhabiting his own. Here and there he could feel invisible winds on his skin and especially on his shadow limbs. An invisible current of something was in the air. Nonexistent to him before awakening his Shadow, he could now almost touch the intangible currents. As his attention to the invisible tide grew, his attention to the visible ground wavered. He tripped on an errant vine, having to brace himself on the closest tree. The pain in his chest agonizingly spiked, leading him to dry heave nothing but blood and bile.

In his moment of pain and weakness, Barry remembered the feeling of helplessness before the fate of his comrade in arms, Rodrick. He was the same age as Barry, both of nineteen winters and from villages in the fringes of the Kedweni Four Corners. They had bonded amid the band of merry bastards and conniving cutthroats.

His mind relived the gruesome end that befell his friend. The sight of a human skull being crushed like a grape was nigh impossible to forget. Barry was never one to be really emotional. Most of his feelings were very subdued, dull, and balanced. Never too happy nor too sad. The only two feelings he ever felt strongly were curiosity and the rush of battle.

And yet, he could barely put into words the void he felt in his chest—like Vorus was in the place of his heart. Though he felt more whole than all his life, he still felt hollow. It was a weird contrast of emotions that boiled beneath the surface. Awakening his mind to what lurked beneath the surface had reunited him with something forgotten. Only for something else precious to be taken from his clutches.

Barry shook himself from his stupor and surreptitiously wiped at his face. Though there was no one there to see him, he still felt slightly embarrassed for shedding tears.

Barry looked down at his shadowy hands. What a strange sight. Their edges were both blurred and sharp at times, with tiny, writhing tendrils of darkness. He could command them just like any part of his body, no thought really needed - they just went where he willed. Moving them was natural and effortless and had come with an instinctive sense of location. Even with his eyes closed, he could touch his shadowy hand to his face just like he could with his former fleshy limbs. Whenever he touched something with his shadowy arms, he felt their surface shift. The surface that was made of smoky shadow hardened into that of a smooth black texture. It felt eerily like skin even though it had no right to, with writhing darkness in the place of hair. Barry's feeling of touch seemed heightened, even touching his hand to his face felt overstimulating to his newborn limbs. Gods, that tickles.

Barry swiped at a tree with his blurry fingers. They shifted at the last second, gaining more substance and sharpening. Four shallow nicks were left on the tree’s bark. He swiped, again and again, feeling the shift right before his talons connected with the bark. He focused on his hands, and they shifted. The darkness became dense and his talons sharpened. Good, I can do that at will. It seems that most of this is instinctive, but I can wrestle control from it at any time I want.

Huh, it’s kinda like breathing. It just works without needing any orders. But if I focus on it, I can control it.

A stray leaf fell down from the trees above, gliding down just in front of Barry’s face. It was dull grey in his strange sight.

His right shadowy arm reflexively caught it, the speed caused him to start. Though mostly insubstantial, his magical appendages were as fast as a coiling snake.

A small grin crept upon his face but was ultimately turned into a frown.

How am I going to get into town with this? I have no idea what kind of magic this is. Maybe they’ll think of me as some lucky mage that survived an attack from a magical beast or… Probably tie me to a stake and burn me alive for foul magicks. I mean, I have arms made of pure darkness...

Barry focused on his Inner Shadow. It felt weakened, and hungry. His spirit tugged the invisible winds around him, and he understood what it wanted. He opened the flood-gates of his spirit. His Shadow became a hungry vortex, the invisible tide around him flooding his very being. When his spirit became like a waterskin bursting at the seams, he closed it off from the world. That feels better. Now, how do I hide these?

He once again focused on his Inner Shadow. His shadow limbs were an extension of it, and normally they’d be nestled inside his fleshy arms. He couldn’t hide them inside his normal arms, they simply didn’t exist anymore. Maybe I can pull it into my body?

He focused on his arms, pulling them into his spirit. A wall of resistance fell between the wants of his spirit and himself. He struggled against it, and that only made it fight back harder against his wishes. Seeing that confrontation was not leading anywhere, Barry tried a different tactic.

Stroking his spirit's ego. Does it even have one?

Thank you for your help. I don’t need you right now, go away... please. Don’t worry, I’ll call on you if needed.

Along with the calm words in his mind's eye, Barry slowly nudged his spirit. He didn't know which really which one was behind it, but he was just glad it worked. His arms came at the seams, tendrils of darkness peeling away and turning into mist that snaked back into his stumps. His Inner Shadow felt crowded with his arms alongside it.

Barry continued his trek towards Berowden. The forest became thinner as he followed the invisible tide that guided him, torchlight appearing amidst the trees. Warm light became beacons in his grey-dull vision. Once he got close enough to see the entrance to what he assumed was Berrowden, he crouched and waited under the shadows. He could distinctly tell apart what was shrouded and what was visible. His uncanny sight was more like a layer interposed above his normal vision. It gave him the ability to discern what would be visible and what would not. The air around Barry thickened, shadows coiled around his body, blending him into the safe darkness.

The town of Berrowden was surrounded by a wall of stone, its entrance an imposing monolith carved from rock. It was much closer to magical land than his village, making defense a necessity. Rarely would a magical Beast wander into land this mundane, but when it did…

Barry dismissed his tangential thoughts with a shiver and focused back onto the entrance of Berrowden.

A crowd was gathering at the gate. Common folk armed with pitchforks, and armed guards sporting the town’s colors surrounded a robed man.

Black robes with a red cross. Dammit! Of fucking course a priest of Oriath is here.

Barry felt his Shadow squirm under his skin as he gazed at the priest. The priest was dangerous. The intangible winds around the black-robed clergyman were sharp like a razor's edge. Barry prodded at the priest’s vortex of invisible… Whatever it was. He cautiously tested at its edges. Only this time, his metaphorical toe was caught by a metaphorical wolf-fish. The man felt the intrusion. The invisible tide around him became more violent and aggressive. Hotter.

“Who goes there!” exclaimed the priest “Show yourself or else we’ll have no choice but to attack!”

Fuck

Barry felt his heart pounding against his ribcage, sending rippling pain as the bone dagger squirmed to the beat of his blood. The darkness around Barry coalesced into his arms. His Shadow Limbs manifested, becoming more substantial and corporeal than before. His hands became actual hands, shadows dancing around them. His nails expanded into jagged talons, and his skin became an umbral blue. The color of a corpse's lips. Barry hoped he would not soon become one as well. Come on. Go back in. No matter how much he pleaded with his Shadow, his arms would not rejoin it. The panic further agitated his limbs, making them grow obsidian spikes and ridges.

The tip of the priest’s staff was alight. A small yellow flame danced atop of it. Hell, take me. I'll either burn, or bleed out by the time I explain I’m not some monster. Barry sighed and took in a deep breath. No other choice. I can’t run with these lungs.

He slowly made his way out of the dark, limping, and slightly slumped. Barry made sure to keep his arms low and out of sight. He felt the disdain of the priest’s eyes on his skin. Fuck you. Of course, I’m gonna limp. I’ve been through a godsdamned battle and lived to the tale! Well, maybe I’ll live… Probably not.

“I mean no harm!” Barry said in a pleading tone, his voice raspy and strained “I survived a battle not far from here, and my wounds are great.” Barry felt a knot forming at his throat, his mouth drying like old leather.

“Approach, boy,” Said the priest. Barry felt the invisible tide around him swell as he approached the robed man. The tide around the priest was like a vortex filled with dangerous serpents, probing at the air around him.

“Stop” Exclaimed the priest “What happened to your arms boy? They look frostbitten… It’s summer.”

The priest lifted his staff in the direction of Barry, its light exposing Barry's monstrous talons.

“Boy.” Said the priest “Explain why you have those things in the place of your arms. What sort of witchcraft have you been toying with?” The priest’s voice was dripping with disgust and disdain, vitriol and hatred.

Barry swallowed the knot at his throat and tried his best to bury the anger boiling up in the pit of his stomach. I’ll rip out your throat, old man. Barry let out an exasperated sigh, it doing nothing to placate his worries and mounting frustration.

“I have not done any ‘witchcraft.’” Responded Barry in a slightly annoyed tone. “Me and my band of mercenaries, the Red Sparrows were protecting a caravan heading here. We were ambushed, and during the battle, I awakened magic. A lot has happened..." Barry looked down at his arms. "This is all so new to me.”

Barry looked back up, waiting for the priest’s rebuttal, his mind racing to come up with answers, explanations, and justifications. Barry’s view obscured by the light pointed directly at his face, making It impossible to see the expression of the priest.

“Very well, you may enter.” Said the priest in a surprisingly calm tone, tucking his staff away at his side. Barry still felt on edge. The priest’s words and even body language were calm enough, but the invisible presence around him said otherwise.

Barry slowly limped towards the gate, all while his shadow limbs were held low lest they scare the townsfolk. Though, all the gesture served to accomplish was make his monstrous nature more like the contour of a dagger hidden beneath a sleeve instead of a blade held high and brandished. Either way, a blade's a blade.

As he got closer to the black-robed priest, the invisible vortex around the clergy-man seemed to writhe and become even more threatening. It was a snake coiled and ready to strike, stopping Barry in his tracks. The vortex condensed onto the tip of the priest’s staff.

Did he just mutter ‘scorch’? Oh motherfu-

A small bolt of yellow-white fire sped towards Barry. He felt the familiar tug at his being, like whispers in the dark.

Take it for yourself.

Barry headed the call of the night. His shadow limbs turned into insubstantial shadows as if they were a candle, being snuffed out into inky smoke. The firebolt was sucked into the pure darkness of his arms like a leaf into a whirlpool. Barry looked down at his shadow limbs, unscathed. Their skin was lit up like a starry night sky, with small motes of yellow and white intersped inside them. A small corona of yellow fire danced around the edges of his smoky hands, lighting them aflame. He could feel a warmth inside his Shadow, beckoning to be called forth. He willed it to come hither. Twin flames made of yellow-white burst into being on both his shadowy palms.

Barry looked at the priest who was shocked at what had happened. The priest’s face was pale and clammy, and his staff’s light dimmed. The armed commoners were behind him, cowering. Barry felt a smile creeping upon his face. I could burn you all to cinders... Nah, I would probably die. I have to find a healer and besides, you lot look scared shitless. Like my pa said, "Don’t play with fire, or else you’ll piss yourself." Gods, don’t tell me that stain over there is what I think it is…

Barry focused on his Inner Shadow, recalling the feeling of the hungry void. He willed the twin flames to be sucked back into his Shadow. The center of his Shadow became warm as the light retreated from his limbs. The motes of light dimmed, leaving his shadow limbs as the lonely stuff of darkness.

“How rude of you!” Exclaimed Barry “Invite me to enter your town and then you stab me in the back while I limp towards the entrance? I could be dangerous, yes, but… Thankfully, I am no mad dog that cannot be reasoned with. I really meant no harm, and still do.” Letting out a tired sigh, he continued “I have fought long and hard. My body is damaged. And if not for my magic, I would be an armless cripple. I need a healer."

Gods, where did that rant come from? I sounded just like my mother.

The priest, caught off guard by Barry’s tirade, shook his head. The vortex around him calmed, the invisible, probing serpents no longer swimming in the air.

“Apologies,” said the priest, gaining back his scruples, “I thought you corrupted or a practitioner of foul magicks... The battle of which you speak of, we need its location. A purifying ritual must be done, the air writhes in agony to the slaughter that has been commi-” A priestess, as equally old as the priest, pushed and shoved through the crowd until she stood near the priest. Her robes were white with a dark blue tree and accents etched upon them. A priestess of Mana this far… North? Gods, I don’t even remember where Berrowden is. And with a priest of Oriath at that? This sounds like a joke. A priest of Oriath, a priestess of Mana, and a magic cripple walk into a bar…

“Bernie!” Yelled the woman “What have I told you about shooting magic first and asking questions later? This is the third young man you’ve shot at with those weak flames of yours.”

The woman berated the priest, every time he dared to retort, the woman went on another quick volley of words. A kindred soul. Ha. Ha.

“Eric, Randy!” bellowed the woman “Help me get this man to the church, we need to tend to his wounds. Immediately.”

Barry finally felt most of the tension in his muscles disappear. His lips curled into a smile. He quickly, and blissfully passed out as soon as someone came close.