[Gossamer]

Blackness. Some instantly thought of it as an absence; a noted lack. But the reality was far broader, far more distinct in what black truly was. An artist could tell you. Pure white was zinc... mixed with nothing, a noted absence. But to get a fine perfect black, an artist could mix all the colors on their pallet... and keep mixing. They could add in blood, sweat, and the flesh of the world. Blackness thus was everything, full to overflowing... containing all and holding onto nothing.

They were poised on the edge of something that tasted like terror in the back of his throat... like, but not exactly. Mikhail could feel it... but it was nothing he could vocalize or even think about as Cale turned and lead him off into the darkness. The route, ironically enough, took them the direction Mikhail had originally intended. It took them towards a card game in Candaceburg, though that wasn't their intended destination. No, Cale thought to lead them elsewhere closer, to the edge of a camp where a pair of travelers rested around a campfire. The light of the fire blinded the unsuspecting travelers to the ink black night around them.

Then, Cale dropped Mikhail's hand and walked into the circle of firelight, leaving the butcher as a silent witness to a timeless unfolding cycle; death. The travelers looked up in surprise as the boy came among them. But it was too late. A single touch, and first one crumpled, then the other.

Within moments, Cale was back. His hand was out once more. "There's little time. Hurry." He said, softly but urgently, his eyes still deep dark black... no pupils, no sign of human life.

Cale's youthful eyes turned ancient and suddenly reflected this. And in an instant, when Mikhail's blinked black, like acknowledged like and fingers intertwined. The boy... stepped sideways into the shadows, his fingers thin, cool and extremely ancient as they linked with the Butcher of Prime's strong well-calloused digits. It was a sensation of being torn... torn from life into death... and then not somehow allowed to make the complete transition. They stood in a realm that was a mockery of the real world. It was a shadowy place washed in grays that held the same landscape as the living realm, but it was somehow twisted by darkness... as if they'd both stepped into the black and white world cast in the near darkness of twilight.

Only then... when they'd fully passed across the barrier, did Cale speak. His words reflected Mikhail's assessment. "Welcome to Twilight." Then he released Mikhails hand and turned. The dead men were there too, sprawled in corpse form... only they were moving, struggling, and even as the Butcher of Prime watched, they burst through the dead flesh... shadowy spirit forms screaming in rage and surprise. Cale moved fast. He had them, reaching out with first one hand, then the other hand firm and confident; capturing them... like ghostly pieces of fabric. As they struggled, twisting like a blown piece of torn sheet in the wind, he tucked one under his arm and pushed and pulled at the other, like taffy in a candy factory.

He reshaped it, forced his will upon it, and before long a shadowy nightmarish creature stood there trembling and snorting its dazed confusion. A silvery headpiece graced its head... that gave Mikhail a bit of confusion until he saw Cale pull the other torn shadowy soul from under his arm and form it as well. He forced it with his Will, pulling a silver tangle of his own energy to harness it with... and before he was done a pair of steeds of deep shadow stood before the two. Cale swung aboard one. It had no form or substance, and only vaguely resembled a horse in the loosest sense of the word. The second stood waiting for Mikhail.

"Come. Ride." Cale said again, already turning his mount away, as if intent to ride deeper into the shadow realm. He had a rendezvous to make, and regardless if his chosen was coming or not, he'd not leave what was waiting for them impatient.