Weightless, ethereal and terrible, the shadow drifts on the air behind Scribbler as he runs for his life. It moves like a wraith hunting it’s prey, without sound nor expression, but cold hollows where eyes should be.

Shadows of one’s deepest insecurities, fears and regrets come to life and stalk their caster, feeding on that which manifested them. The mere sight of such a horror sends the blood ice cold, and the mind turns from rationality to panic. The only instinct is to flee with all the energy that can be spared.