Hello, Phylacteries, Horcruxes and Soul Gems!
Wait! We have to go back for something. Yes it’s important! No, it can’t wait till tomorrow! Well, um…it’s because…
This week’s Writing Group prompt is:
I Dropped My Soul
RULES AND GUIDELINES BELOW!
Make sure you scroll down and read them if you haven’t! You may not be eligible if you don’t!
This prompt has a wacky chaotic energy that makes it very fun. The idea of dropping something seemingly impossible to drop leaves lots of room for creativity.
Let’s begin with the more symbolic and potentially serious takes on the prompt. In most worlds souls cannot be physically dropped, though they may be spiritually lost. You could write about someone who symbolically “dropped” their soul by going down a dark path in life. Perhaps they were once good, and then became some sort of villain or dark lord, and as their loved one sees who they become, they feel as though they’ve dropped their soul. This could be more fantastical, or it could be realistic. For instance, someone in the real world becoming a corrupt businessman could be someone who dropped their soul.
Perhaps it’s more like Dementors in Harry Potter. In your world, maybe when someone’s soul is taken away their body becomes an empty shell. Perhaps you tell the tale of someone trying to help a lost soul find their body.
This prompt could also be taken much more literally, and this is where I think hilarity could ensue. Liches (or any adjacent type of character) are certainly a good candidate for this situation. Maybe a demon or reaper has collected a soul, and drops it on their way back to the afterlife. Or maybe you could write about a world in which souls are always a physical thing. What if someone could simply trip and drop their soul? Could a soul be something like keys, or a phone, that you could accidentally leave it home, or drop on the way to work?
Where was it dropped? Dropping your soul on the sidewalk is a different story from dropping it in a burning building, or at your ex’s house, or down The Bottomless Pit of Metirchalah.
What happens when it falls? Are souls something that could break? You could write about a soul breaking into pieces upon falling. Maybe there are soul repairers in your world to which your character must go. Maybe instead of breaking, souls in your world ooze, and your character is desperately trying to catch it before it oozes down the sewage grate. What happens when a soul is damaged? Would the person change once they put it back in their chest?
Who might find it? Whether a stray dog thinks it’s a chew toy, a homeless person holds it for ransom, a dashing prince nobly searches for its owner, or an arch nemesis uses it against the protagonist, who finds it would change the course of the story drastically. And if you hold someone’s soul, does it affect the person it belongs to? Can you control their actions? Their personality?
My challenge for you this week is to make me genuinely laugh out loud with your story. I am not the easiest person to make genuinely laugh out loud, and this prompt I think could potentially be one of our funniest if you really lean into it.
Well what do we have here? Hello little soul. I know you’re in there. I know you can hear me. You’ll make a lovely addition to my shelf.
—Kaylie
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Remember, this is part of our weekly Writing Group stream! Submit a little piece following the rules and guidelines below, and there’s a chance your entry will be read live on stream! In addition, we’ll discuss it for a minute and give you some feedback.
Tune into the stream this Saturday at 3:00pm CST to see if you made the cut!
The whole purpose of this is to show off the creativity of the community, while also helping each other to become better writers. Lean into that spirit! Get ready not just to share what you’ve got, but to give back to the other writers here as well.
Rules and Guidelines
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Rite of Passage
By: Gadrius
Halcyon exhaled slowly, focusing on the grazing buck. He steadied his heart and his hand, then released the bowstring.
THUNK.
A cheer rang from the bushes beside Halcyon as his brother, Solarus, leapt to his feet. Halcyon was relieved his elder brother had volunteered to join him. The First Hunt was an important rite of passage for a Spirit Elf.
“Come, brother! Let us collect our kill before it sours!” Solarus lovingly clapped his brother on the back, “I wish you to do the honors.”
Halcyon smiled, once again grateful for his brother’s encouragement. The two streaked down the hill towards the body of the slain deer. As the two moved, trails of soft, blue light danced behind them, the mark of a Spirit Elf’s power.
The two reached the carcass of the deer, and Halcyon quickly pulled his waterskin from his side. He unstopped the bottle and quietly began to chant a few words. As he spoke, glowing blue particles began to collect in the air above the body of the deer. They hovered noiselessly towards one another before springing together like magnets.
Finally the motes of light converged into a single glowing ball. Halcyon muttered the final few words of the incantation, and the sphere floated towards his waterskin before quickly disappearing into the leather pouch.
Solarus’ face shown with a massive grin. “My brother! I am so proud!” He tussled Halcyon’s hair, then the two set to work cleaning and skinning the hide.
Once back at camp with their prizes, Halcyon eagerly called out his approach. In response, an unseen voice, deep and booming, came from just beyond the gate. “I am sorry, son. I cannot allow you to pass. No shoes, no service.”
Halcyon could not hide his confusion. “What do you mean?? I am properly clothed!”
The voice boomed again, this time with more mirth, “Well, you have the leather and the tongue, but it seems you’re missing the SOUL!”
As the voice bellowed a hardy laugh, Halcyon looked down at his side and groaned. Somewhere along the way, he’d dropped the soul!
The Offer
by vellichorian
Having principles is easy when you have no prospects. At least that’s how it was for me. How many hours did I spend in cafes, nursing a single cappuccino, pontificating about how art is only worthwhile when made for art’s sake? No one ever challenged my rants. How many times did I hold court in the pub, declaiming the sellouts’ dilution of the industry from my soapbox while accepting free drinks from nodding sycophants? I hope they enjoyed the show. How many times did I look at my own face in the mirror, promising my reflection that I would never become one of them, that I would be true to my vision no matter what. I was all I had.
And then it all changed.
I woke up today wondering how I was going to keep the lights on. One phone call later, here I sit, weighing the decision of a lifetime. The proposed contract glows on my tablet, bright with the shining glory of potential. My work, front and center in the public eye. My name in lights. The dream. With just a few concessions. A tweak here to make the pieces more “accessible to the masses.” An adjustment there to “appease the censors.” A smattering of commercial works to complete the show. I would have complete creative license, as long as I met the client’s “simple requests.”
And the compensation. I’ve never seen that many zeroes in a row before.
I run my hand across the stubble on my chin. The sound of my neighbors’ fighting bleeds through the thin walls. She demands to know why he didn’t come home again last night. A draft blows through the window, giving me goosebumps. I look back at the contract. Yesterday, I could have attested, with absolute certainty, that I would never accept the terms that mock my integrity. But now, the only path forward looks an awful lot like a shattered dotted line.
Soul Not Included
By Jesse Fisher
The noises of the workshop made it seem like a factory over a creative space. The amount of tools and parts were strewn over the many tables and the floor. Diagrams and blueprints laid obscured by the parts, the constructor was not paying attention. A dirty rag fell to the ground as they climbed up from the seated position.
Stalled and grinding sounds grew louder as the constructor moved from the seat to a table with more plating. Cracked and chipped metal fingers moved to the tool it needed. It shuffled back to the worn metal seat as it moved back to work.
Its body was once a certain shade of blue but that had faded to be sun bleached, cracks in the metal body left little to imagine on the reason for this state. A hard life under an unforgiven sun and the monsters that can survive under it. One might question the sanity of making another to suffer the same as it had.
However something within it’s soul wanted another to share itself with. Such as it began to use all the time in the world to just start making the new one. Parts were not hard to get, as scrapped robots were easy to find. Buildings were full of them, and the still functional ones were most of the causes of the dents. The raw metal that now covered the new one was taken from a vanity tower of a being that thought they were so important.
Only one part was left, but it could not find this item. It was the only one left that it knew of and age had made it harder to go beyond. It must find it.
*crunch*
If it had a heart it would have sank, as a foot lifted to see the broken chip.
It had no mouth but the scream was near heartbreaking. But it was not an end but a new fear crept in.
Calling You From My Soul
By MasaCur
“I have done it again!”
Miguel looked up from his magazine to see his master flamboyantly enter the study. Ibrahim was a gaunt, pale man, and overcompensated with his colorful wardrobe.
“Si, si. What have you done?”
“I have relocated my phylactery to…” Ibrahim paused for dramatic effect, shooting a glance at his minion. “My telephone.”
Miguel stared at Ibrahim in disbelief.
“I know, you are speechless,” Ibraham continued. “I, Ibrahim Gonzalo Esparraguera am, myself, in awe of my genius.”
“Si, master. I myself am also without words, as I question the low standards of whatever institution agreed to teach you magic. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the point of the phylactery to be kept somewhere safe? Safe and away from you?”
Ibrahim waved a hand dismissively. “And run the risk that my enemies might happen upon it. Nonsense, Miguel. It is much safer kept upon my person.”
“Si, Master. Of course, you also run the risk of not only having your enemy damaging your phone, whether by chance or design, but also accidentally damaging it yourself.”
Ibrahim theatrically opened his bright orange jacket, and placed the phone, inside, patting it reassuringly. “Such a thing will not happen, Miguel. I can assure you.”
“I don’t know, Master. I feel like you’re going to accidentally drop it in the toilet or something.”
Ibrahim loudly scoffed. “That is only a problem for mortals such as you. As an immortal lich, I have no need for such trivialities as using the toilet.” He twirled dramatically. “If you have need of me, I shall be looking for potential replacement underlings on my new soul receptacle.”
Miguel rolled his eyes, then returned to the magazine he was reading.
He heard a bang from the next room, followed by a thump on the floor.
“Curse you, bony fingers!” Ibrahim howled.
“Did you drop your phone?” Miguel nonchalantly asked.
“Miguel, do you, perchance, have your phone on you?”
“I do, master.”
“Then can you please call our provider to get me a new phone before my soul leaks out of my cracked screen?”
“Coffee, Sweets and Ghosts”
By Hemming Sebastian Bane
Brynhildr soared among the evergolden clouds of the morning, the sun warming her eagle-like wings. Despite the chill, she didn’t linger in the warmth. She was already exactly zero point eight seven five seconds behind schedule as it was. With a mighty flap, Brynhildr flew towards their planned meeting spot for the day.
Today it was a little coffeehouse in a small town of the northwestern kingdom because Radgrid said their coffee was good. Brynhildr shook her head as she swooped into a nearby alley. The street in front of the coffeehouse bustled with cold workers. Quickly noting the dress of the women in the streets, the valkyrie donned similar clothes before walking out of hiding.
Across the street, tables and chairs littered the sidewalk in front of the coffeehouse. Approaching, Brynhildr smelled a hint of chocolate and cooking dough. She sighed. Of course Radgrid would choose a patisserie. As she approached, the valkyrie quickly made out a woman that was very out of place. Her hair was down in wild braids – as opposed to Brynhildr’s tight bun – and she was dressed in the leathers of older times. She sat very still, sipping from a small cup.
Brynhildr suppressed a sigh. “Good morning, Mist.”
The valkyrie in shieldmaiden garb looked up and nodded.
Brynhildr sat across from Mist and ordered a coffee with milk. “So, where’s Radgrid?”
“Late.” Mist tapped the table as she scanned the crowd.
“Of course she is.”
Brynhildr’s coffee came and got cold before either of the valkyrie sisters saw Radgrid. The bouncing tight curls made the eldest Radgrid look much younger that she was. The skipping didn’t help, at least in Brynhildr’s mind.
“Lo, sisters mine!” Radgrid smiled so warmly it could have melted snow.
Brynhildr looked at the elder valkyrie with contempt. “Where have you been, Radgrid?”
“There, there, Bryn. Thou might call me Raddie, if you wishest. And my madness hath method. Allow me to give tidings forthwith.”
Brynhildr, or Bryn now, looked to Mist, who shrugged.
“Continue,” said Bryn.
“As I speak a heart doth stop. Sisters, here a soul doth drop.”
The Judgement of Charon (It’s Always Sunny in Olympus)
by Alexsander Edwards
“Ahem, Lord Hades?”
A voice from across the great hall of the Underworld resounded through the corridors, loud enough to finally break the Lord of the Dead’s focus on his immaculately kept ledger, listing the daily income in obols.
“Ah, Minos,” he said, looking at the former Minoan king who stood in his ceremonial gowns. “I thought I told you your job was to judge new souls instead of talking to me as they formed a queue outside, yes?”
The muscular king shifted. “Y-yes, but… Mr. Charon seems to claim he lost… something.”
Behind him stood the Ferryman of the Dead, hugging on his oar for comfort.
“Riiight… well, you go on back to your post and I’ll deal with this,” he said, before turning to the oarsman. “Charon?”
“Hrngh,” Charon groaned, as Minos ran back to his post with a speed worthy of Hermes himself.
“Yes, yes, you were ferrying the dead, let’s move to the important part – you didn’t lose an obol or something, did you-”
“Guuhrrrr”
“How do you lose a soul on the Styx-”
“Harrrnnngh”
“IN the Styx?! How in my name did you manage to-”
“Hmmmph,” the oarsman moaned, as a tear formed and rolled across his face, only to evaporate before hitting the warm floors of the underworld.
Hades and all the shades surrounding him paused in shock. “Oh my… Me,” he said. “You’re… you’re actually… okay, here, it’s fine, we’ll look for it together, okay? Just you and me, as nice friends, just like old times, alright?”
“Nnnhghhh,” Charon wiped tears off his eyes as Hades approached, firmly holding his shoulder.
“So, what did this soul look like?”
Charon shifted uncomfortably before gesturing towards his head in-between groans.
“Long, curly hair, can’t miss it, got it. And, uh, a name?”
Charon gulped. “Uh… H-Heuuhhhnn…”
“Helen?! OF TROY?! You lost Helen?! Oh, crapbaskets…” Hades said, before rushing to the Styx, followed by Charon. “I am so docking your pay for this!”
That’s the Spirit
by Lee Strangely
The carriage moved with awesome speed while smoke seemed to trail off the horse.
Thunderbolts rained down in a furious symphony that shook the landscape. Twas a deafening fanfare, following their carriage no matter how fast they rode.
Mort put on the brakes when he saw a shelter: a thin, crooked shed just off the road. Upon stopping, his magnificent steed finally flopped onto the ground… then promptly combusted.
Mort called back into the carriage, “You think we pushed the horse a little too hard?”
Clay kicked open the carriage door, carrying a bag that seemed nigh empty, yet took both his hands to drag across the dirt. Once inside Clay gave a sigh of relief. Another stressed grunt followed as he reached into the bag and lifted out a fiery glass orb.
“At last!” Clay cheered, “We’re whole again!”
The longer he held it, the more he felt his hands burn beneath it. He gave a loud yelp as his hands instinctively let it fall.
Panicking, Mort grabbed it, making his own strange noises as he quickly and gently put it back with the other one in the bag, while it stung his hands as well.
“Careful, careful!” Mort scolded him, “those are our souls you’re handling.”
“Hey, at least we got em back…”
“Yeah, but we still need to figure out how to put em back!” Mort shouted while pointing to his chest.
“Why?”
“What do you mean why? They’re in a burlap sack. They’re not where they’re supposed to be.”
“Well, I just thought…”
“Thought what?”
“I thought they’d just…”
“Just what?” Mort mocked him, “just fly right back in?”
Clay looked away, blushing.
“Clay, our souls got ripped out like bones out of a fish. They ain’t gonna just snap back like a rubber band.”
“And how would you know?” Clay argued.
“Because if they could, they wouldn’t be in that SACK!”
“Then what the heck are we supposed do with em then? Swallow em?!”
Rejected by Death (Illusions of Heroes)
by Gerrit (Rattus)
“Are you feeling alright, Sister? It’s not like you to let one get away like that.” Probability strode up behind her, his trademark smile plastered across his face.
“I didn’t ‘let one get away’, as you put it.” Death didn’t spare her brother more than a glance; she kept her eyes forward, hands clasped gently in front of her. “I should be insulted that you think me so poor at my job.”
“I speak only on what I see. And I saw a soul ascend, only to be taken from you by another.”
Death watched as the soul fell back to the planet, returning to the body it had recently left behind. She wondered how long it had been since she had last allowed a soul to return home.
“If you would like to believe this dilution of our Brother bested me, I will happily leave you in your fantasy.” Death wondered how this ‘Olessa’ was related to them. Niece? Great niece? Not that it mattered. She was a fraction of a fraction of Existence, a fragment of an already diluted power.
“So you let her get in your way then?” Probability’s teasing tone was beginning to get on her nerves. She wondered if he derived joy from annoying everyone around him.
“I know this idea may seem foreign to you, Brother, but I have a plan. One that involves this soul remaining intact, at least for now. Let the girl think it was her doing, if she would like.”
“Allowing a soul to return to its body seems like a risky move.”
Death finally looked at her sibling. He always looked dishevelled, so unbecoming of one in their position. “You should know a thing or two about gambling.”
Probability smiled. “It’s not gambling when you know the outcome. I can gamble no more than you can create life.”
The soul returned to its body, its light fading as it sunk beneath the flesh. The man’s eyes opened, spurring tears from his partner that kneeled beside him.
“One does not need to create life in order to preserve it.”
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The Immortal Secret (The Will)
By Skeleton
“Is this the end, then?” Ericka’s voice pierced the night’s rain.
When she had seen the shadow of a man slink away past the city walls towards the darkness of the forest, the deep-seeded fear that wordlessly haunted her dreams bloomed fully. It had always been a possibility that Eymir would give in—everyone knew that—but nobody believed it would happen. Nobody but her, that is.
And now as the man stopped and looked over his shoulder, Ericka wondered if this would be the last time they would be allies.
“Yes.” The answer was cold and to the point.
The wulack commander felt the warmth of her frustration well in her chest. “That girl loves you, you know?” Ericka called out over the roaring around them. “You would betray that—the love that you say you value above all other things—at its strongest? Her dreams are coming true right before her eyes. You should be celebrating.”
“A dream can quickly become a nightmare. She’ll learn that soon enough.” Eymir waited again for the inevitable.
“I wanted to believe that you weren’t what they said you were,” she admonished, “but clearly you don’t have a heart.”
The man shook his head, but controlled his anger. “We must all be what fate ordained us to be.” Ericka perked up at Zaila’s quote coming from the man’s mouth. Eymir turned fully, his disgust for fate apparent in his eyes. “If she wants to play hero so badly, then so be it, but she will quickly come to realize that heroes cannot exist without their counterparts. And what better villain is there—” he raised his arms dramatically to emphasize himself “—than a demon.”
Ericka had no words for the man’s stupidity, shaking her head and giving up on him completely. “I left everything to her,” he continued. “My training, my skills, my sword… my love—she has what little good is left of my soul.”
With that, the shadows fell to their place in the world. Ericka watched with hidden regret as the man slowly disappeared into his role.
Zaila could never know. It would destroy her.
I Know Where My Strength Resides (A Song for: Abraham)
by Lunabear
A candle flame threw shadows across the tent and table, illuminating etchings and few items. The most notable was a flute glass of crimson liquid near the table’s edge.
Abraham sat, meditating over his writing, utensils, and open book.
An incoming chill caused the flame to shudder then extinguish. Her heady, cloying perfume wormed its way into his nose.
“Ishtar.” Abraham worked to dismiss her as he relit the candle.
“Madame,” she corrected in a humorous, Middle Eastern lilt. She struck a pose that accentuated her hips and breasts. The slight pout to her mouth was playful.
She’d said Madame was preferable to Sire or Maker because it sounded more elegant.
Abraham didn’t care either way. He forced down a sip of lukewarm blood and continued his meditating, his eyes closing this time.
Ishtar’s hands fisted against her hips. “Hmph. I give you an army rivaling a fleet. Thralls to do with what you please. Your very own private quarters. I THOUGHT you would show a modicum of gratitude.”
“My not taking fang to every single human who passes through here IS my gratitude. You, MADAME, are in the wrong business with me if you seek more than that.” Abraham’s eyes didn’t open. “Those you name ‘thralls’ are merely nourishment.”
Ishtar’s chest hugged his back. Her colored nails sought refuge within his hair. “Have I not given you new life? Do I not stir… something within you? Does my soul not move through yours?” Her whispers were cold and soft.
There was only one for whom Abraham longed, but he wasn’t here.
Abraham untangled himself and stood, eyes stoic. “My soul, what’s left of it, belongs to my Heavenly Father.”
Ishtar glared back, dissatisfied. “I can take you further. You shall bear witness.”
“I already see much more than you ever will. Blinded by greed, power.” His gaze flicked over her with disdain. “LUST. You will never be anything other than a vessel for sin. Yours is a path I refuse to follow.”
Candlelight highlighted her eerie, fanged smile. “Prepare yourself, Progeny.” She bowed, exiting.
Kneeling, Abraham prayed for guidance.
Can’t Touch This
By Marx
Matt paused, looking down at his lap and then looking up at Laila.
“Yours is a sword.” He grumbled.
Laila nodded, nervously biting her lower lip.
“Mara’s is a sword.”
Laila nodded again.
“It’s always a sword…”
“Well…” Laila found herself wincing. “Clearly not… always…?”
Matt’s eyes narrowed as he stood, letting the weapon fall to the ground as he stormed out.
“What happened?!” exclaimed Mara, bursting into the room. “Why is Matt so angry and…?”
Mara looked up thoughtfully as she tried to pin down the emotion that she was feeling from him. “…dejected? And why is there a big scythe on the floor?”
Laila shook her head and sighed at the direction Matt had left from. “He was curious about my sword being forged from my soul. When I said I taught you how to do it, he wanted to do it too.”
Mara nodded. “Aaaah… I see. You know… his life would be so much easier if he just accepted that he’s Death’s horseman.”
“Agreed. But what can we do? We’re his familiars. We support him regardless.”
As Mara agreed with Laila’s words, a mischievous smirk formed on her lips when she looked down at the scythe. “I’m gonna touch it.”
“Don’t you dare!” Laila growled, immediately making herself into a barrier between Mara and the weapon. “Matt’s soul is so powerful… If touching that wouldn’t kill us, it would at the very least knock us unconscious…”
Mara’s grin widened. “Is it twisted that I want to touch it even more now?”
Laila shook her head with a glare. “What is WRONG with you?”
“I was born in Hell from human sin.” Mara giggled. “What’s your excuse? You’re an angel. All pure and holy and all that… You want to touch it too.”
“I do NOT!”
“You do remember that I can feel your emotions, right?”
“S… shut up! Ignore that! Come on! We need to cheer him up!” Laila insisted, pushing Mara out of the room and leaving the discarded scythe where it laid.
“Dear You”
By Constella
“Dear Sister,
I hope you’re doing well. As well as you can, wherever you are.”
The ornate feather he held in his hand glittered in the light of the candle. His eyes were caught by it for a moment before he glanced around and realized how many sheets of paper he had gone through. Ares couldn’t even remember how long he’d been at this; It’s not like the clocks would give an answer, they were decorations more than anything. He ran a hand through messy gold waves before continuing.
“I’m okay, in a sense. In the way that matters, right?”
A frustrated sigh escaped him. What did that even mean? He crumpled yet another and discarded it among the growing sea.
Ares’ ears flicked against curled horns as he laid out a new sheet. He didn’t immediately address the letter this time though. In his haste to write something out, he’d forgotten who he was writing to.
If he had ever tried to speak so formally to his sister, she would have wondered what was wrong with him. Even to their superiors, Morgan acted as if they were no different from everyone else. Night Above, just remembering her attitude made him laugh fondly under his breath.
Morgan. That name had become foreign to him, though he could never bring himself to lose it. Her pale eyes and azure hair waltzed across the peripherals of his memory; as much as he wished to forget, he couldn’t bear to do that to her.
Though it should have brought him joy, her presence left him feeling neither alive nor lively. When the moon vanished, she took a part of him.
Ares put the feather into the ink well and bowed his head, holding it in his hands. That familiar feeling rose from the emptiness. His chest felt like it was constricting, his thoughts overflowing, he couldn’t breathe. And yet, though he fought and eventually succeeded to hold it in, it never filled the void in him, in his being.
Seeing that a few teardrops had landed on the paper, Ares discarded it.
What to Do About a Lost Soul
by Carrie (Glaceon373)
The loss of a soul is a costly thing. It is costly to the victim, but is also costly in terms of time.
Sometimes, one’s soul is taken from them by force. A soul torn to shreds by someone with hatred in their heart. That will ruin more than one soul, in time. It always does. And it always takes time.
This is also true when one’s soul is not taken away by another. Sometimes the loss of a soul is not at the fault of anyone specific. Sometimes, circumstances stack up and up and up, and one can find themselves without their soul, without the thing that exists to carry them through their life. But that loss takes time as well.
For it is impossible for one’s soul to be truly torn away in an instantaneous moment. Sometimes it may feel that way. But you can trust my words that it always takes time for a soul to fall.
But then what happens after it tumbles, down and down and down? What happens to a soul, lost from its home, with no one taking care of it? And what happens to the host, the victim, the one now soulless in a world fueled by the souls of everyone else?
Well, there are many who lose their soul and never find it again. Rarely, someone is able to form a new soul, a soul without any of the original attached. But humans are creatures of habit. They will want their old selves back, time and time again.
So what do they do? They search. They hunt. They fight. And they do not stop until they find themselves again. Or they die. Whichever comes first.
So now, my friend, you have a choice to make.
Your soul was ripped out of you, piece by piece, for months. It is all gone now. But you can find it again, if you try. You will have to search and hunt and fight. And you may die before you see it again.
But are you willing to do so?