I first felt the Dark as a whisper at the edge of my mind, a pull I could neither name nor resist. Those attuned call it the Black River—a current that flows beyond perception, beyond law, beyond mercy. It does not exist in space as we know it; it is everywhere, nowhere, a presence that watches, waits, and remembers every touch.
At first, I believed it a tool, a resource like any other. I practiced carefully, small manipulations: a droplet of the river bent in my hand, a scrap of wood restored from ashes, a piece of metal rusted a moment too quickly. Each success brought a thrill, a taste of control. But the river is patient, and it tests every vessel. Tremors in my hands, whispers beneath my hearing, visions of impossible geometries began to haunt me. I realized too late that it was not I who was reaching into the river—it was the river reaching into me.
Vigor is what allows one to channel the Dark. I had some, or so I thought. Yet the more I pushed, the more my mind felt like sand slipping through my fingers. Obsession crept in, then paranoia. Nights were sleepless, filled with murmurs and fleeting shadows. I started seeing shapes moving at the edges of vision, forms that made no sense, impossible and alive.
The river demands attention, focus, and respect. Small manipulations became a struggle; advanced attempts were suicide. I remember the moment I tried to reverse decay in a larger object. My hands trembled uncontrollably. The river twisted and flared, and I felt a tug at my very essence—as if it wanted a piece of me in return. I resisted, but only barely. When I finally stepped back, I understood what others before me had written in fractured manuscripts: the Dark does not forgive weakness. It consumes it.
The effects on mind and body are subtle at first, then relentless. Dizziness and disorientation give way to compulsions I could not explain. Tremors became permanent. Sleep eluded me. I caught myself staring at nothing for hours, listening to whispers that promised impossible truths. Some who reach too far are never seen again; others descend into madness, chemical dependency, or self-destruction. Rarely, a survivor emerges outwardly intact—but I learned the hard way that outward calm hides subtle horrors: perception warped, instincts sharpened, empathy hollowed.
Containment is a joke. I once tried to bottle a fragment of the river, thinking to study it safely. The leakage was immediate; entropy blossomed in my room, rust devouring metal, wood disintegrating without cause. I abandoned the attempt quickly, but the river’s memory lingered in my bones.
The Black River is not a tool. It is a predator. It remembers every touch, every hesitation, every thought of pride or curiosity. Even now, I feel it brushing against the edges of my mind, patient, watching, waiting for my next reach. And I know that one misstep, one moment of arrogance, could claim what is left of me.
I write this warning not as guidance, but as confession. To engage with the Dark is to flirt with infinity, to gamble mind, body, and soul against a current that is older than memory. Some may call it power; I call it terror made substance, and I pray to whatever fragment of my sanity remains that I never touch it again.
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