In the dark conjurings of a sentient mind, all that is imagined can be made real. The beast, and the shadow it casts. The beast’s shadow, and the light from which it is born. Each torn away, made distinct, made into things of nightmare.
Philosophers and fools might claim that light is without shape, that it finds its existence in painting the shape of other things, as wayward as the opening of aneye. That, in the absence of such things, it slants unseen, indeed, invisible. With-out other things to strike upon, it does not cavort, does not bounce, does not paint and reflect. Rather, it flows eternal. If this is so, then light is unique in the uni-verse.
But the universe holds to one law above all others: nothing is unique.
Fools and philosophers have not, alas, seen the light.
Conjure the shape of beasts, of Hounds and monsters, fiends and nightmares. Of light, of dark, and of shadow. A handful of clay, a gifted breath of life, and forces will seethe in the conflicts inscribed upon their souls.
The Deragoth are the dark, and in their savage solidity would claim ownership of the shadows they cast. Lock and Pallid, however, are the light that gave the Deragoth shape, without whom neither the Deragoth nor the Hounds of Shadow would exist. If the hunters and the hunted so will, one day the beasts shall come together, baleful in mutual regard, perhaps even eager to annihilate one another, and then, in a single instant of dumbfounded astonishment, vanish one and all. Ha hah.
Not all instincts guide one to behaviours of survival. Life is mired in stupidity, after all, and the smarter the life, the stupider it can be. The Hounds of Shadow were neither brilliant nor brainless. They were, in fact, rather clever.
Salutations to this triparate universe, so mutually insistent. And why not? It doesn’t even exist, except in the caged mind that so needs simplification.
A mind, mused Cotillion, like mine.
He glanced across at his companion. But not his. When you stand at the centre of the game, no questions arise. How can that be? What is it like, to he the storm’s eye? What happens, dear Shadowthrone, when you blink?
‘This,’ muttered Shadowthrone, ‘was unexpected.’
‘A damned complication,’ Cotillion agreed. ‘We need the Hounds there, just to ensure nothing goes awry.’
Shadowthrone snorted. ‘It always goes awry. Gods below, I’ve had to use that mad High Priest again.’