Darcy was becoming impatient for the “birth” of The One True Evil so without waiting for the full 36 hours to be complete, she recited the ancient esoteric spell once more. Using the iron atheme, she slid the glinting blade over her milk white skin and instead of the one drop of genius the recipe called for, allowed her blood to flow freely, staining the ashes and the hair deep crimson, so deep in fact that the stain shone black in the firelight.<br/><br/>Shadows darted from the four corners of the room, inky black and shimmering silver. The shadows danced and flowed first as nimbly mischievous elves but then grew menacing. Wind began to whistle down the chimney and the shadows collided to form a mass like that of a hovering volcano eruption. Darcy laughed as the shadow engulfed her and the wind made her hair flow backward from her face.<br/><br/>She held out her arms as if to embrace the evil and it sprang to her hands. Darcy called to the darkness and began to spin her hand much like a pizza maker works the dough for a pie. Darcy was in control of the darkness. She was Creator. She was Mother. The mass began to take shape and to form in a long snaking rope and this she threaded into the spiral mold. The earth began to rumble and beakers fell from the shelves. Darcy held the power in her hands and felt the spark of Power like nothing ever felt before. Throwing back her head, she shrieked with insane joy.<br/><br/>Isolde woke to find the world shaking in its boots. The pain in her wrists and shoulders were excruciating, pounding with every beat of her heart.  The last thing she remembered was seeing was the rose colored ballgown standing vigil in the corner of the room, seeming to be backlit by a white winged creature with a drawn golden sword. Then the world turning black and she had a final sensation of flying. She also remembered who had been standing over her bed. Damn Darcy’s eyes.<br/><br/>The door to her dungeon chamber shook until dirt fell from the lintel above. She was on a wooden table, not tied anywhere but her hands. Wiggling, she managed to fall from the table, banging her head on the flagstone floor. Isolde narrowed her eyes and she wedged herself around until she gained her feet. The room spun as she blinked her eyes to regain balance. Her shoulders felt like they were on fire. If only she had her hands free that door would prove to be no obstacle. Darcy had never been a match for Isolde, magik for magik and when she was freed, morals and honor would not interfere with recompense.