There are different types of dark. Like the quiet, natural dark that means us no harm and allows for the stars and moon to shine brightly. Some darks are good because they are peaceful darks, and bring with them restoration and rejuvenation. Other darks are frightful only because of the unknown, and your mind plays tricks upon you and what might be inside of that unknown dark. And there are some darks that are just insidiously evil. Back when I was bound to the tower by Father, all these darks surrounded me at all times. But the quiet dark was my friend. Within its creeping comfort I would dream of days like I have now, filled with adventure, light, warmth, comradery and love. I would dream of the nature I held so dear in my heart but was kept away from as I withered in the tower. I would dream of the woods and the trees and of the Unicorns who watched over their forests. You could always tell a Unicorns forest over any other forest. The leaves never fell from the trees and died when they turned autumnal. In their forest it is always springtime or fall and the animals exude a peace and calm that is unnatural anywhere else. In the Unicorn’s forest, the moon and stars are never covered in haze.

These dreams still come to me in the silent dark of my restless dreaming. At least that’s how they begin, before my eyes are pierced by a light so bright its blinding - and I am sure I must squint my closed eyes as I dream. And then it is devoured by a dark so dark it stands out in contrast to the quiet, normal dark. That is when things change and the Dark Wolfshadow comes. He comes to cut down the trees, to slay the woodland creatures, to cage the Unicorn - and to bleed me of all that I hold dearest. People watch as it is happening. They watch without actually seeing, they talk without actually speaking words. They hear me screaming but they are not actually listening. My voice falls like silent tears echoing in the deepest well of silence. It’s as if they are not in the Feldark realm but I can see them. It is as if there is a tear between the realm of dreaming and waking. And the silence grows like a sickness, the same sickness that has infected us, and the same sickness that now ails the beloved Ni shrubbery. It is heeding to some silent master. It is spreading and growing like a wildfire, feeding off our emotions, always hungry and never satisfied. It weakens our will as it exhausts us. Some give in, give up but the negativity only makes it spread and grow faster. Giving up only feeds it more.

This is what it wants. It is almost the perfect machine.