Into Darkness
Xephos hated the dark. Hated it, despised it, with more feeling than he had ever known he could. It brought fear, it caused his hands to shake and his legs to tremble, caused his body to flee in terror. But it was darkness, and only in fairy tales can one escape from shadows.
With the darkness came feelings, sensations beyond the fear-filled despise. He was falling, tumbling through nothingness while black tendrils of shadow grasped and tore at him, spun him around and around. They pulled the air from his lungs as it happened, squeezing him until white hot spikes ran through his chest. Whether the pain was spawned by compression or the ensuing lack of oxygen he could never tell.
There never came any memories, only senses; senses screaming at him that everything was so very wrong, even if it was really alright. And so, with no explanation, and with only horrible feelings of terror and death, Xephos fled the dark. He promised himself he would never enter it again.
He fled to torches, to the little pinpricks of traveling light that pushed away the shadows and encompassed him in a curtain of soft, glowing protection. He surrounded himself with them, so he would never break the promise. So as much as his brand new dwarven friend teased and scolded, Xephos just grinned and stuck another stick on top of a coal-except it's really the other way round isn't it-and plonked the newly crafted torch three steps away from the previous one.
Over time he learned it became easier, although the fear didn't fade so much as he learned to work past it. Limited resources forced the torches farther and farther apart, and while he hesitated he pushed himself through, following the words and laughter bubbling from his friends and knowing if he kept going he'd soon come across more light.
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