text: This is a little short story I wrote for a dnd character I'll be playing. I do this a lot as it helps me contextualize them in a more concrete way before the game. I've been trying to force myself to write more and I'm curious how something like this plays to a different audience. I will say there are definitely a few details in here that might come off as kind of random or not fleshed out. I don't think it's an issue but that's cause the initial intended audience has more context on the world (it's his world after all). Regardless, feedback is always appreciated! Sveta had never been truly alone. Her earliest memories always came with imaginary friends, guidance, and praise. In her darkest times she always had somebody to turn to, in times of fear or sadness they were always there when she needed them. While she struggled to make any true friends she never needed them, she never had fewer than three to play with. When she managed her first spell her parents were over the moon. They showered her with praise, told her she was such a prodigy (whatever that meant), and sung her praises. But she was just doing what the voices told her, they were always telling her things. With their guidance her power rapidly grew, a chorus of praise whenever she succeeded and a council of support when she failed. Sveta knew she was destined for great things, everyone told her so after all. But, as Sveta grew, the voices began to change. No longer were they content to solely support and shepherd. Slowly, that gentle guidance became just a bit more forceful. It grew and built with each coming year, with each paradigm leap in power. Soon it turned to orders, to demands, to injunctions handed down from whatever celestial realm they inhabited. Soon she realized her refuge was gone, now a hornet’s nest of commands shouting her down for daring to be somebody else, daring to be anything but the thing they demanded she be. Sveta could have taken it, could have been what they wanted. If only the voices had ever wanted the same thing. It was always strange, often the voices didn’t even seem to hear each other. They weren’t together in a chorus, but each a song unto themselves. At first they made a lovely meddled medley for they all wanted the same thing: the best for young Sveta. Slowly, their songs diverged. A discordant knot of sounds all calling for different courses, all demanding she sing along. To please one was to draw the ire of the other two. Love and care left in the wake of cold indifference as each had its faith in her devotion shaken time and again. She would reach out for help, try in desperation to open to others about her plight. All she was rewarded with was more admonishment, more disappointment, more displeasure. How dare she complain, she had a direct line to the powers above! So many toil their lives to have even a single conversation and she was born with such a gift! Sveta was chosen! Anointed! What manner of ingrate would whine about such divine providence? None seemed to consider the difficulties of having three such lines, nor the impact of being denied a self. A lifetime of this building torment. A lifetime of a mind roiling like a hurricane. A lifetime taken by three discrete forces well beyond her control. This was no connection, no concordance, no it was a chain. Her leash fought over by so many at once. A leash she may finally have the means to sever. -- Blasting sands tear across the dunes with the biting acrimony of a disapproving parent. The cutting wind screams her name with each baleful gust. Beating rays of heat press down on her back with overwhelming expectation. Even so, Sveta trudges forward across the sand. A grim determination presses her through the storm. For years every free moment she had stolen was spent searching for the means to break these shackles, to finally be free. That desperation found her here, in this forsaken land of sand and sun. She stops to take a sip of water and consult the old map once more. Not some relic from an ancient ruin but a simple piece borrowed from an archive from the city’s ignoble past. Bracing against the wind she pulls out a compass as well. Comparing its needle, the sun, and the towering spires of the city in the distance she plots a course once more. They chastise her again for stooping to such basic orienteering but she heeds them and their power no mind. With a breath she tightens her facial covering and steels herself. Onward she will forge. Always onward, lest she crumble before the cacophony in her head. For three days she fights her way through the increasingly hostile land. Those same forces that screamed in her head fought her progress at every step, it was her only solace that their efforts could not coordinate against her. Finally, she crests a hill and spies what she seeks. The tip of a long forgotten tower peeking above the sands. Its design is unique, a cathedral to none beyond this plane and a watchtower once dominating its surroundings cut into seven segments each shaped by a different force. Perhaps this place still holds a bit of the independence it purported to protect. Clenching her teeth, Sveta looks at the spire barely peeking above the sand. No obvious way in of course. She tightens her fists into balls and invokes her power once more. Her head screams as the connection ignites. While other such chosen call on their deities to send them a servant Sveta reaches down three filaments tethering her to the above. Here she feels the forces moving like a powerful river and simply plucks one from the rushing mass. A lifetime of practice has left her quite deft at picking the right ones amid the unending deluge and tumult. To her pleasure it is another success. A hulking mass of roiling ajer and stone turns to face her with the vaguest approximation of a face. It manages only confusion as it finds itself at this strange woman’s beck and call. Sveta does not bother with honorifics, she simply points at the sand beneath her and bids the creature to “dig”. Without question, and much to its chagrin, it complies. Soon a tunnel is dug and stabilized, arcing around the tower until an entrance is located. A massive hall lay below the sand creating an artificial cave beneath the sand. Sveta then simply nods, commanding the elemental to cease in its work. It looks at her expectantly awaiting its release. She ignores the creature and examines the cavernous room below her. At first she considers simply flying down but that thought is quickly cast aside, tossed into the raging river of thoughts not her own. No, it would be better to simply use a rope. Grumbling, Sveta slides down into the large forgotten chamber below. She ignites a torch with a tinderwig and frowns as the flickering flame fails to illuminate much of the structure. With another grumble she focuses inward and whispers a prayer in a language she was never taught to speak. With a brilliant display daylight ignites upon her torch, casting its rays across the room. Sveta pushes the admonishment at the use of her power from her mind and raises the beacon high above her head. A scene of pitched battle is laid out before her. Whatever the engagement was it involved many parties, some maybe even more powerful than herself. The ground is riven and torn, impacts riddle the walls from arrow sized pockmarks to craters, burns, scorches, and a million other after effects mar this once grandiose chamber. Slowly Sveta picks her way through the carnage seemingly fixed in time by the desert above. She passes by a serpentine figure encased in some ancient crystal, over numerous humanoid shaped holes, around a patch riddled with shards of metal, through a whirlwind unable to let go of this world, and past dozens of remains of kynd of all stripes. Sveta pauses on the far side of the room and glances back at the scene. Perhaps she should have taken the time to study this place, if only *they* would let her focus on something as trivial as that. Sighing once more she turns back to the towering archway. What was clearly once a set of gargantuan metal doors lay twisted and broken on their sides. Another casualty of whatever tragedy befell this place. This place, this tomb, is a labyrinthine mess of halls and stairwells. Sveta wanders and delves deeper within picking her way through what remained. It seems that dozens lived and worked here, in a hierarchical structure judging from the layout, all she can ascertain is that those at the top called themselves “shapers”. As she picks her way deeper into the structure she slowly realizes that this ancient place was built atop something far, far older. While the signs of battle seemed largely localized to the chambers above deep below Sveta discovers the scene of one more. Unlike the varied and significant marks from above the conflict here was nasty, brutish, and short. A series of blood stains smeared on the walls and floor, each punctuated by a crack in the stone telling a sickening story. The dozens of discarded weapons told of the sheer number who presumably perished in what could only be an attempt to access whatever lay in the ruin below. The still growing plants about the bodies raise yet another open question. Regardless of the combatants or their capabilities they left a hidden passage, a wall of interlocked stone like a woven fabric, open to the world. This place, this hallowed hall of sullen silence, seemed to breathe again as Sveta peered down the corridor. A sense of unease settled over her soul, compounded thrice as a rare chorus of agreement pressed against her head. Sveta had learned well to heed the voices’ warnings, they always steered her clear of the most perilous danger. But “danger” had always meant what they wanted it to. She was steered as they saw fit, oft away from what was only dangerous to the possessive. Their council of agreement told her one simple thing: “she was going the right way”. Against their protestations she continued on, trying desperately to focus on the echoes of her footsteps over the ever increasing internal clangor. The yawning stone hall stretched out with the hallowed portent of a great cathedral, yet it terminated with just a strange circular chamber. The stone gave way to a twisted architecture of brass and bronze. Sveta had been told of the others who came before. Tomb raiders, daring archeologists, wise cracking adventurers, and mummy fighting treasure hunters had all picked the ruins long clean. If there were any further secrets she would need something more than the gumption and pluck the others had borne. While she knew not where to use it, she was perhaps provided with just such a thing. A quill, made of the strangest glass, seemingly able to write its tales in the strands of reality itself. Closing her eyes Sveta pulled the quill from her pack along with the instructions provided for her. She stares at the words, they shift in her gaze as the voices shout at her once more. She had thought of this however and the simple instructions were laid out in large helpful letters letting her mind push through the discordant din. One by one she read off the pieces out loud, her wavering voice echoing back to her, ringing over the cacophony in her mind. A piece of sandstone pulled from the city’s walls, a shard of ice that had never been water, a flicker of fire from the belly of a volcano, a vial of unbreathed air, a bolt of wood from the oldest tree, the means to write one’s fate, and a mote of untapped potential. The last two had vexed Svetta for years until she came across both in an unlikely shop on the far side of the world. A shop run by almost a concept rather than a person, an entity she could not find mention of nor recall detail since. Sveta was not one to look a gift enigma in the mouth. There she procured the quill, said to write in very aether itself. In addition a single piece of unsullied papyrus. A nothing that could be an anything. As if responding to her preparation, seven slots opened along the sides of the room. With each receptacle filled the ancient structure seemed to shudder with excitement. As Sveta inputs the last piece the entryway violently slams shut behind her with a screeching crash. Then, the entire room rapidly plummets deep into the ajer below. Sveta presses herself against the floor, with only the means to hope that it does not give way. As rapidly as the terror takes hold it is assuaged. The lift wrenches to a stop, her brilliant daylight winks out leaving only the dying torch and silence to fill the space. True silence. Silence Sveta has been loath to experience for her entire life. No orders, no admonishments, no advice, no anything save for her own thoughts stretching their legs for perhaps the first time. This relief was quickly tempered by the realization of what lay before. With a belabored heave the door slides free once more. Within she sees an octagonal chamber, seven sides and an eighth for a door. Her gaze is immediately pulled towards one such side however. While the other six bear symbology and portent this one simply frames what could only be described as a wound in reality. A void seemingly anathema to the concept of existence itself. It pulled at her, promising to consume the voices along with her thoughts. She dared not look more, for it was not why she was here. Tentatively, Sveta steps into the octagonal room. She raises the meager flame of the torch to let her see. Unlike the opulent halls and cavernous rooms above this one was simple and utilitarian. No further across than need be to fill the space, no taller than to allow one to comfortably walk within. The stonework is simple and sturdy, metal reinforcements helping bear the crushing burden of ajer above. Each wall is carved with an ornate set of symbols but each seemed etched with purpose. Each told a story beyond the profligate filigree that usually adorned such secret spaces. In the center the room holds a simple statue of a humanoid figure. It stands tall and proud, the kind of figure people deify, but here positioned like a coat rack. The statue holds two items, yet clearly misses a third. First, about each wrist is a set of bracelets, one gold the other silver, etched with a symbol seen covering the place above. In addition he bares a simple headband. It is seemingly made of basic silk and cotton, yet untouched by time. As Sveta stares she realizes it is held together by something much greater. Finally, around the statue’s neck a talisman is conspicuously absent. Sveta thinks back to the figure encased in crystal above and considers trying to wrest the amulet from him. But none of this was why she was here. If she were a covetous woman, like those who had scavenged this place before, she would snatch everything she could. But no, Sveta knew disturbing such places was always dangerous. Greed served her not. So she takes only the headband, turning it over in her hands to find it held together not by the fabric but rather the threads of reality itself, the very threads she was here to understand. Idly running her finger over the soft, comforting fabric she turns now to the walls of this room. Her unyielding will constantly turning her gaze from the destroyed wall as she does. Each remaining wall bears markings associated with various elements. Fire, water, ajer, and air, all simple and obvious. What she didn’t expect was wood to be counted among their number. Casting the void from her mind that left but a sole option before her: Aether. The others promised to bend the world about the finger of those willing and able to shape them but Aether promised much more. And thus here Sveta stands. For a short eternity it is all she can manage to stare, clutching this piece of metaphysical cloth comforting her quieted soul. She knew not what she was to expect here at the end of her journey. Perhaps a great sacrifice, a magical artifact, secret knowledge, something of such monumental great worth. She was ready to spend months deciphering ancient text, learning forbidden techniques, or proving some nebulous concept of worth. She looked back at the other walls, each bearing similarly inscrutable bromide yet all lacking something that this one still holds. Life. Slowly, everything began sliding into place for Sveta. She was not here to study, learn, or even understand. She was here to *do*, to act, to shape the world around her. With that realization the symbols carved about the walls began to snap into place in her mind. They were no simple artistry, no language, no instructions, or hieroglyphs. They were a guide, leading her hand to the threads of existence like a weaver’s shuttle. With a delightful glee, the excitement of discovery that was always jealously withheld from her, she tugged at the threads with all her might. Objects were pulled from her person and flung around the room, aimless forces woven together like fabric to block them as they rebounded. A control so utterly rudimentary yet unbelievably exhilarating. She let out a gleeful shout at this realization, at a thing *she* began to learn, a choice *she* decided to make. Turning free now she sighs with satisfaction. A spark lit within her that she would protect against the storm. With a newfound vigor she steps out of the room, only affording herself that last glance at the gaping void. Perhaps when she is free she shall uncover its secrets. For now she will settle for her own. Pulling once more at the threads she extends a hand at the quill lodged in the side of the elevator. It springs to her hand like a loyal pup and Sveta triumphantly holds it aloft like a sword. Truly the pen was indeed mightier. Ready now to face it all once more she turns as the door slides shut and she ascends to the surface. -- Howling winds buffet the woman once more. The biting sand having given way to cutting ice, oppressive heat to bitter cold. The shearing screams of her name are a mere petulant whisper next to the wailing in her head. Orders and demands had long since given way to reprimands and those in turn to vitriolic invectives. Yet for once the sounds did not cripple her for eager enthusiasm and dogged determination impelled her forward through the driving snow. Gleefully she invoked her power, for once enjoying this part of herself she never could. She crossed the majority of the world with plane shifting and wind walking simply to revel in the ability. And for once she cared not for their protestations. As she climbed she wreathed herself in a glowing warmth, sheltered herself from the gale with one of her own, and pushed forward on borrowed strength. With every step the snow melts before her and a disgruntled elemental guides her path without question. On her back she hefts her greatest prize, the culmination of her meager fortune. A colossal blade forged from mithral and enchanted with an unerring edge, sharp enough not only to cut anything but to cut *nothing* as well. Embedded in the blade’s heart is that quill, the final piece in her emancipation. For once in her life she did not know what the future would bring. It was exhilarating. It was like this that she reached the apex of the mountain. A jaggy, snow covered crag of stone seemingly overlooking the entire world. As she crests the voices make their final demands. One by one they issue ultimatums and one by one she breaks them. Sveta braces as the power she had invoked dies around her, protections fading as nature crashes down like a tidal wave. The winds tear at her clothes ripping her hood free and whipping her hair to the side like a tarnished banner. The cold eats at her body, threatening to consume her extremities in its infinite spite. The air is yanked from her very lungs, each breath restoring only a fraction of what was taken. But in this state of wild yet unshaking resolve Sveta knew that this meant that she was finally at the end. As the power she had been given, the power she had been shackled to, was torn from her Sveta turned instead to the power that *she* had fostered. Looking at the sky through the howling clouds she smiles at the shimmering aurora, prismatic bands dancing in the sky. Sveta now knew what they were. From here she could see them, this place was special and those aetheric strands all seem to connect in long bending arcs. They stretched and bent about the world like a shroud, flowing like rivers, and here culminating in something even the layperson can see. To Sveta’s eye in training she searches for and spies the threads that bind her. Sveta smiles to herself, taking the deepest breath she can in the thin air, the cold tearing into her lungs. Despite standing at the zenith of her torment she was also standing at its conclusion. She casts a hand out to the side, focusing inward and pulling at the strands herself. Slowly, the massive blade begins to move from her back. It is far too large to ever functionally wield but for her it was perfect. The blade slowly rotates in the air as she wraps stands of her own about it, guiding it with practiced care to her target. She tugs at them like a weaver, puppeting the powerful blade forward. Even as ice forms on her face and clothing the world seems to settle into a quiet lull. Faintly she could hear the voices pleading now, stooping so low in their final moments. But it was too late. She thought back, never truly having known if she could be heard, but nonetheless she tried one last time. Her blade finds the tether, she tenses herself for what is to come, and flicks her wrist uttering a single perfect word. “Freedom” Reality seems to quiet about the woman as she drops to her knees in the snow, joyful tears streaming down her face. Despite nature still raging at her she can only revel in the freedom she dreamed of for so long. There was no explosion, no feedback, no horrible agony, just a sudden respite from everything bearing down on her beleaguered soul. She pulls her blade back, hugging the beautiful thing in relief and rapturous joy. As the cold begins to set back in she hoists herself to her feet, ready to make the arduous climb back down. But something gives Sveta pause, a sound cutting across the mountain top to her. Is somebody else here? She turns, looking for the sound, but there was no one here to share in her triumph. Then she hears another calling out, as if talking to yet another crowding the tiny mountain top. Slowly a revelation begins to worm its way into her mind as one by one more and more voices make themselves heard. Not one, not three, but everything all talking over each other at once. An incomprehensible deluge of thought passing through her mind headed everywhere else. She looks up at the strands again, these filaments vibrating like a harp and spiderwebbing out before her. She had not cut the tether, she had cut the restraints. In that instant freedom was pulled from her grasp and something far worse settled in its place. Sveta drops to her knees at the utter indentation of thought devastating her soul like a shattered dam. It is all she can do to clutch her head in a state of unmatched agony. And she screams.