∴ An Arcane Desire∴
In accordance with your vision, the warrior steps onto the shore – as cold and forbidding as the waters she emerges from. Black is her armour, and gleaming black her hair. Black is the hilt of the slender sword at her side, laced with bars and pierced with an eight-pointed star.
If this is chaos magic, it is not as you imagined it. Far from uncentered your every thought and fibre is in orbit, spiralling gyres drawn into an unerring epicentre: a single intent, incandescent with urgency.
You must make that sword your own – or perish in pursuit of it.
An unfamiliar cry spills from your pale lips as you launch yourself at the warrior. As if in slow motion you watch surprise bloom in her dark eyes, then harden into chilling resolve.
∴ A Lingering Void ∴
You cannot remember finding the sword, nor lifting it from its dark stone pedestal. You only know that you craved it, and it was in your hand. Turning the blackened hilt in the half-light, you examine its strange engravings, caress the curve of the pommel, feel the weight of the blade.
So engrossed are you in your appraisal that at first you barely notice the sick sensation coursing through your veins – something alien, probing, tentative yet dauntless. A feeling that the sword is somehow trying you for size.
And there is laughter. Impossible laughter, pulsing through the chamber, rattling between ribs and up through your throat. You grasp your wrist with your left hand, digging nails into flesh, willing your fingers to quit the wire-wrapped grip.
The air clears. The sword falls to the ground with a clatter. You realise with a flood of relief and disappointment that the thing will linger on here, awaiting one far greater than you.
Far greater, and far more terrible.