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Tracey Smith.

Sept. 2010



Writing on the wall.


Sam worked her way deeper into the darkness, her raised hand holding a short flaming torch that cast shadows along the curve of stone to either side. Her hair was loose and fell to her shoulders, golden blonde that bore the odd grey or white strand now. Her pale blue eyes were well suited to the gloom but she still peered at the shadows, searching as she trod carefully, easing her boot clad feet down slowly and with small steps. She’d heard of this place but hadn’t thought she could actually find it. This was the place where the birth of the world and the deepest origin of the magic was recorded in images similar to those she’d seen in the fortress where Hiann now lived.

Sam frowned as she pressed deeper underground, an expression that had become her normal face as she struggled to make sense of the life she’d been thrust into, that she’d plunged into, without realising how much it might have been the wrong choice. Day to day life made no sense. The magic made no sense and Sam felt more and more isolated from everything she cared about, even deep inside her own mind. The peace that had descended on most of the land and over the remaining Eysi had eluded her.

So she sought answers alone, deep in the dark places beneath the earth that she nurtured and the answers she found weren’t the ones that she needed.

Holding the short torch high above her head, Sam let the fingers of one hand trace the faint lines in the stone where the writings had once been. Barely visible now, they faded into the shadows and she laid her palm flat on the rock, trying to understand what she saw there. Her magic flared, a slow creeping glow that eased into the lines and sat there, shining out the message that made Sam step back and blink.

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