Elixir of Shadows
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Thunder still murmured in the distance as midnight loomed over the city, blending neon with blue-black rain beyond the club’s high windows. The club—the Underleaf, as half its patrons called it—throbbed with a rhythm built for forgetting. Bodies flowed like dark water past velvet ropes, under sullen chandeliers. But at the farthest edge, tucked in a private booth shielded by heavy curtains, the young owner sat alone.
Her hands, usually steady with the habit of counting tills and signing off deliveries, now trembled as they hovered above the scattered remnants of the elf’s visit—a single silvery strand left on the table, a folded slip of paper pressed flat beneath a heavy glass ashtray. The elf had gone, her presence lingering only as a subtle shimmer of air, a memory of wildness and purpose. The owner pressed her palm to her chest, feeling the unnatural cold that had started there weeks ago, the hint of frost that crept up her ribs, tighter every day—the curse.
Lightning flickered at the edge of the city, illuminating the oil painting of the old club founder, whose eyes mirrored the club owner’s own worry. She passed her numb fingers over the bottle of whiskey, its amber contents catching the flicker of strobe lights. She did not pour a measure into a glass. Instead, she lifted the heavy bottle to her lips and drank long, letting the burn chase away the numbing cold, if only for a moment. It helped sharpen memories of the elf’s green-eyed focus—the urgency in her demand, the pain hidden behind her resolve. A sister lost in the city’s shadows, a curse binding a mortal soul.
The music out in the club seemed distant, muffled by velvet and the rush of blood at her temples. She set the bottle down, knuckles white, then slumped back against the leather upholstery, her breath unsteady. Resolve assembled itself slowly, click by click, like stacking poker chips at the bar long after closing: plans to seek out the witches that worked in the city’s silent corners. Favors would need to be called in, old debts paid. Fear would have to be buried under bravado—something she’d spent years perfecting.
Outside the booth, life continued. A couple spilled red wine onto the dance floor and laughed. A bartender shined a row of mismatched glasses. But inside, the owner felt utterly still, suspended between loss and hope. Tomorrow, she would begin her search. The witch would be found. The curse would be lifted, and the elf’s sister returned. For tonight, only the cold, the whiskey, and the weight of impossible promises kept her company in the neon dark.
This story was generated by user viki.biki12 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Describe a long story about a young club owner who formed an alliance with an elf. He was to find her missing sister, and she was to help him break the curse that threatened his life. Describe how she sat alone in her private booth at the club after the elf left her alone. With a trembling hand, she reached for the bottle of whiskey and took a long swig straight from the bottle. She decided that tomorrow she would begin searching for a witch who could lift the curse. Describe everything without dialogue.
Response: Thunder still murmured in the distance as midnight loomed over the city, blending neon with blue-black rain beyond the club’s high windows. The club—the Underleaf, as half its patrons called it—throbbed with a rhythm built for forgetting. Bodies flowed like dark water past velvet ropes, under sullen chandeliers. But at the farthest edge, tucked in a private booth shielded by heavy curtains, the young owner sat alone. Her hands, usually steady with the habit of counting tills and signing off deliveries, now trembled as they hovered above the scattered remnants of the elf’s visit—a single silvery strand left on the table, a folded slip of paper pressed flat beneath a heavy glass ashtray. The elf had gone, her presence lingering only as a subtle shimmer of air, a memory of wildness and purpose. The owner pressed her palm to her chest, feeling the unnatural cold that had started there weeks ago, the hint of frost that crept up her ribs, tighter every day—the curse. Lightning flickered at the edge of the city, illuminating the oil painting of the old club founder, whose eyes mirrored the club owner’s own worry. She passed her numb fingers over the bottle of whiskey, its amber contents catching the flicker of strobe lights. She did not pour a measure into a glass. Instead, she lifted the heavy bottle to her lips and drank long, letting the burn chase away the numbing cold, if only for a moment. It helped sharpen memories of the elf’s green-eyed focus—the urgency in her demand, the pain hidden behind her resolve. A sister lost in the city’s shadows, a curse binding a mortal soul. The music out in the club seemed distant, muffled by velvet and the rush of blood at her temples. She set the bottle down, knuckles white, then slumped back against the leather upholstery, her breath unsteady. Resolve assembled itself slowly, click by click, like stacking poker chips at the bar long after closing: plans to seek out the witches that worked in the city’s silent corners. Favors would need to be called in, old debts paid. Fear would have to be buried under bravado—something she’d spent years perfecting. Outside the booth, life continued. A couple spilled red wine onto the dance floor and laughed. A bartender shined a row of mismatched glasses. But inside, the owner felt utterly still, suspended between loss and hope. Tomorrow, she would begin her search. The witch would be found. The curse would be lifted, and the elf’s sister returned. For tonight, only the cold, the whiskey, and the weight of impossible promises kept her company in the neon dark.
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