Visions, Dreams, and Memories

Visions from Kab Melekh

The Vision of the Circle

You step into the Circle, the shimmering lines of force parting as you do, permitting you to enter into this place beyond places. The preparations are complete. You will have your answers. You sit, cross-legged, close your eyes and open your mind. You step into the Circle, the shimmering lines of force parting as you do, permitting you to enter into this place beyond places. The preparations are complete. You will have your answers. You sit, cross-legged, close your eyes and open your mind. You step into the Circle, the shimmering lines of force parting - you hesitate, a chill running down your spine. Somewhere in the room, a spider begins spinning its web. You blink, refocus. You step into the Circle, the shimmering lines of force parting as you do, permitting you to enter into this place beyond places. The preparations are complete. You will have your answers. You sit, cross-legged, close your eyes and open your mind. You step into… No, no, something is wrong here. The spiderwebs and dust coat the room. How long has it been? You step into the Circle, the shimmering lines of force parting as you do, permitting you to enter into this place beyond places. The preparations are complete. You will have your answers. You sit, cross-legged, close your eyes and open your mind. You step - something is terribly, terribly wrong - into the Circle - but I'm so close, I must have answers, just a little further - the lines - get out, get out, get out - of force - no, it can't end like this, this can't be all there is, no no no no, NO… you step into the Circle.

The Vision of the Ziggurat

You stand atop the ziggurat as the serpents surge up the steps towards you, the angels and the devils charging forward with them. The bitterest of ironies strikes you: that you have, indeed, managed to unite them all in a single purpose as the treacherous hag predicted - but that purpose was your destruction. Your companions lay about them, steel and spell flashing in the paleish light of the moon, when through the melee you see her - the one responsible for your downfall, whose hand snatched away victory from your very grasp. In that moment, you know that you cannot win this fight. The best you can hope for is to stop her. You raise your staff above your head. The time for subtly is gone. She leaps at you, perhaps knowing what you intend - but she is not quite fast enough, and even as she buries her blade in your chest you break your staff in two. As the world around you disintegrates and plunges the pair of you into the deepest of abysses, you hold a bitter and spiteful satisfaction in what little of your heart remains - that unlike some, you at least went down fighting.

The Vision of the Indifferent One

The creature is shouting at you. You hear it well enough, and understand its words, but they are meaningless. The plankton might as well berate the whale. You pay it no mind, trusting your servants to dispose of it if it becomes a nuisance, and return your attention to worthier things. You picture the cube of flashing colour, pierced upon four faces by rushing winds of starry darkness, hanging in the endless void. Here is wisdom and understanding, certainty and eternity. The noise from outside intensifies. The creature - and others of its kin - are attacking your servants. They might as well wage war on the wind. You return to your meditations, rising up from your slumber only to casually rip the life out of two of the creatures that attempt to ascend the steps to your throne. They could not harm you in any meaningful way, of course - though you note dispassionately that their kin have brought down one of the servants and are making an attempt on the other - but the distraction would be an inconvenience. You note, too, that this remains a source of attachment and weakness that you will later have to eliminate. Something is happening to the Tower, you sense - spirals of magic ascending and binding it in place, wards to prevent you from crossing its threshold. You dismiss this development as irrelevant to your considerations. The creatures have destroyed the second servant, and you conclude that there would be no advantage to allowing this to continue further. With a moment's effort, you will yourself to rise from the Throne where you have sat motionless for centuries. With another moment's effort, you snuff out their lives with a thought and a Word. The chamber falls still once more. You return to your contemplations.

The Vision of the Broken World

The world is broken beyond all hope of repair. This you know for certain. The others - they seek to fight it, to fix the cracks and build a better world; but you know that this is an impossible dream. Life is but a short series of finite joys, and an infinity of suffering; each living being cannot help but inflict suffering upon others and suffer in its turn. The plans that you placed in motion have eliminated any possibility of it being otherwise; and even if it was, you have seen what lurks beyond the Gates and know the awful, inescapable fate that awaits this world. In horror and regret and despair, you find clarity and compassion. Let the flame of life be snuffed out; let the world grow silent; let the curtain fall. Let them be saved from these coming horrors; let this be Mercy. And with that thought, you set about destroying the world.

The Vision of the Palaquin

Lounging on your glittering Throne, you smile down benevolently to the petitioners who gather at your feet, bowing and mumbling prayers and supplications to your divinity. You are their light, their hope, their salvation, and you bask in their worship. When it takes your fancy you reach a golden hand down to one of the huddled masses and impart your blessing - for you are a merciful god, a kind god. Those upon whom your touch falls gaze up to the stars in ecstasy, their cares and pains melting away as they fade, little sparks departing their broken vessels and joining the blazing radiance that is your godhood. They crumble to ashes, floating gently away on the wind as they attain that liberation that you have promised them. Your attention is drawn away as the doors to your throneroom open, admitting a half-dozen robed figures who between them bear an elaborate palaquin. You smile graciously, rising from your throne and passing through the throng of worshippers to meet them. Their arrival brings good tidings; with such a thing as this in your possession, your victory is all but guaranteed. But it is only as you draw back the door on the palaquin and glimpse the starry darkness within, that to your horror you realise - far too-late - the extent to which you have been betrayed.

Visions from Vash Ossai

The Vision from the Throne of the Overseer

In the depths of the forest, hidden from the eyes of mortals and gods, stand the four shamans - one from the warriors, one from the mages, one from the labourers, and one from the shifting ones - who are most blessed of the Lady of the White Grove. The oath is sworn, the power is invoked - and the divided tribe are made one once more. By Her infinite will, which divided her kin for the sake of their survival, they are once more brought into alignment with one another; the dance continues, the four tribes becoming one nation bound by common cause against those who would enslave them. Time passes, and the ages turn; nations rise, and fall and rise again. The three serpents raise their heads, and cast their will across the world; upon the Throne of Stars, bedecked in the feathers of the kingfisher, they conspire and plot the dominion of the world, knowing not the force that guides them onward. The serpents whisper with stolen tongues of gold, and desire the gift of the Dancer; they strike out, their venom piercing the forest and dividing the tribes once more. Yet in their victory lies the seeds of their destruction, for the Golden-Tongued One has slithered into their midst. First rise shadows, then light, then fire - and the serpents fall, the geasa that bind their armies falling into rebellion as opens the red eye of the Breaker of Chains.

Aurelia's Dream - An Angel Shattered

Below you, behind a slight haze, you see a circular chamber, with eight thrones set evenly around the walls and a final throne in the centre. The chamber is filled with strange clockwork mechanisms and tube-like protrusions which lead hither and thither; two dozen or so grey-robed figures bustle around the chamber, checking the mechanism and making adjustments. After some time, a door opens in the side of the chamber and nine more figures, hooded and robed in white, enter and take their places at the thrones. The final checks are performed, and a series of levers are pulled; a flowing spectrum of light begins to flow around the room, circling and circling… it is now or never. You push forward, and the sensation is for a moment as if you are passing through a waterfall - and then you are in the chamber, descending on wings of light to come to rest amid the gathered magi. The sword in your hand blazes with white fire, and as you speak, your words are like thunder; though the distant part of your mind that is still you, still Aurelia, comprehends them not, on some level their meaning is clear: a warning, a plea, a threat. One of the Nine stands from her Throne, tossing back her hood, and levels her wand at you. She speaks a single word, and the meaning of that word comes with crystal clarity: I REFUSE. A beam of crackling power bursts from the wand, and the chamber shudders; it strikes you and… with a jolt, you awaken, your head throbbing.

Teagan's Dream - A Throne Taken

You find yourself in a grand chamber, massive and imposing, every surface and decoration carefully crafted to give off one single impression - that of supreme, unchallenged authority. Before you stands a throne of blackened iron, about which twist countless strands of gold; and upon the throne, a woman in robes the colour of lavender and of the deepest oceans, her features partially concealed behind an ornate mask. She regards you, impassive; then speaks. It is an old language, one that your waking mind would neither recognise nor understand, halfway between the common tongue and that of the dragons - but in dreams, the meaning is clear. "It comes to this?" she asks; "yes", you answer. There is perhaps a hint of sadness in her as she stands. "Thus all things are their years allotted", she says, gazing past you. She removes the mask, and you catch a glimpse of her face. She is old, and very weary. "What happens now?" you ask. "We wait", she replies, "and we endure. You shall understand one day". She descends the steps that rise toward the throne, leaving her mask upon the very seat of power, and fades into the shadows. You ascend the stairs, don the mask, and take the throne. Somewhere beyond the chamber, a crowd is cheering and chanting your name… and the dream fades into the haze of sleep. When you awaken, you find that the ring that hangs around your neck is now upon your finger.

Eibhleann's Vision - A Memory Stolen

You focus your mind in a meditative trance, allowing your thoughts to dissipate into nothingness. Time passes - and in the silence of your mind, a vision arises; a vision, or perhaps a memory.

From the murky heavens of the dream, she arrives; it is less that she steps through the walls of reality, more than she plunges, collapsing to her knees exhausted by the mental effort. You can tell at once that she is terrible wounded; any other being in such a state could not possibly survive such injuries, but it is her blessing and her curse that she clings always to life, no matter what. You run to her, and hold her in your arms as her body shifts from form to form, yet unable to heal the wounds of that terrible weapon that struck her down. You realise that in the material world, she would be as close to death as she might ever be, paralysed and insensible; and that the affliction of the weapon that felled her is one also of spirit. She is in agony, but whilst there is nothing you can do for her physical form, you know that you might yet help her here. Whispering gentle words and embracing her as she shifts from one half-bestial form to the next, you sooth her spirit. For a mortal, this would be a true and final death; for her, it is but the mercy of sleep. For a time - though that word is so very meaningless in this place, maintained by your will and little else - you remain there, with her asleep in your arms; and then suddenly she awakens, recalled back to the world of flesh. You wait patiently, expecting her return; and when she does not, you extend your sight to the world below. In a ring of trees you find her, and when you see what has become of her, you pass from horror, through helpless despair, to rage, and beyond it to sudden clarity. There is one path untaken that you might yet tread, though it would cost you everything. But for the sake of love, and that she might find respite, you would gladly pay that price. You speak the words, take up the sword, and step through the gate… and behind you, your kingdom shatters.

Nikol's Dream - A Chamber Opened

You are walking through a ruined city, its long-abandoned buildings of black stone arrayed in labyrinthine streets that twist and turn and divide again and again. Above you, a storm rages, pale lightning flashing across the iridescent clouds - but down on the surface, the air is hot and still. You walk, guided by a singular purpose; and at length you pass through a great walled garden, a million hyacinths blooming amid the devastation of the ruins. At the centre is a great stairway into a yawning pit of inky darkness that seems to suck at your very soul. You steady your resolve as you begin to descend those cyclopean stairs, down and down until the light above is drowned in the darkness. Then at last, a chamber opens, and in its centre lies a chest of solid iron, its smooth unpainted surface untouched by rust or the passing of aeons. There is something dreadfully, unspeakably wrong about this thing that lies before you, something terrible that makes your every sense cry out that you should run, run now, get away from this place and never return - but some deeper fear even than this roots you to the spot. Slowly, ever so slowly, the lid opens just a fraction, and you glimpse something move within. Startled, you awaken in a cold sweat.

Echo's Dream - A Trap Sprung

“This is a trap, isn’t it?”, you say to your companion, as you enter the warren-like slums. The rain is falling, cold and heavy, and your feathers are rapidly becoming sodden.

“Obviously,” she replies, turning and grinning at you, “but I get the feeling we’re going to walk into it anyway.”

You laugh; not the laugh you’d use if it were actually funny, but the embittered laugh of one slowly coming to the realisation that they were, perhaps, the punchline of a joke entitled “history”. She’s right, of course. The possibility that hangs in the air tonight is one that has been baited perfectly for the both of you. Even knowing full-well that what you had been told had to be a lie, the fact that somebody knew enough to tell that extremely specific lie was worth investigating.

“If this goes wrong…” you begin to whisper; she cuts you off mid-sentence.

“If it goes wrong, a lot of things are going to happen very quickly. I’ll get between them and you, and you get out of there as fast as you can. Do you have the vial?” You nod in affirmation. “Good. The moment it looks like things are about to get unpleasant… well. I’ll be going loud, put it that way.” You reply with the sound of a distant explosion by way of acknowledging that you understand.

You round another corner, and see them in the alleyway ahead. Just the two of them, like had been agreed - two of them that you can see, anyway. Your stomach tightens - and not just from the sulphurous odor of this place that the stormflood has turned into an open sewer. You cannot be sure of what or where, but there is danger here. Your opposite numbers, a kenku and a tiefling, eye you suspiciously. Your heart racing, you whistle the first part of the recognition code - and allow yourself to relax ever-so-slightly as the other kenku whistles the answer in reply.

They turn to the tiefling and nod; “that’s them alright”, you whisper to your companion.

The four of you approach, still wary of each other. No visible weapons… surely they hadn’t actually come unarmed. You are only a few feet away from each other now, sloshing through the filthy water that comes up to your ankles.

“You actually came,” says the tiefling, hand resting lightly on their belt. A knife, perhaps?

“How could I miss such an opportunity?” replies your companion. For a moment, there is silence, broken only by the rain and the ambient sounds of the city.

“Do you have it?” she asks; the tiefling nods, and pats the scroll-case at their belt. “Of course. Do you have my payment?”

Your companion pauses a moment. “I’d rather see what I’m buying first”. The tiefling shrugs, pulls the scroll case from their belt, and passes it over “Be my guest. If you get it wet and the ink runs… well, that’s on you”

Your companion passes the tube to you; it is substantially heavier than you expect, and you almost lose your grip and drop it into the filth below. She shoots you a look, but then turns back to the tiefling.

"Heavy case. That’s lined with lead, isn’t it.”

“Of course. Do you think I’m an idiot? You know how the kenku talk - no offence, Gliss - I’d wager half the wizards from here to Draenos know of this thing’s existence by now, and I’d rather not have every last one of them, and half their apprentices too, trying to scry the bloody thing...”

You’re barely paying attention, levering the lid off to take a look at the scroll within. For a moment or two, excitement builds in your mind - it could well be genuine. If it’s a forgery, it’s an incredibly good one; the parchment, the ink, even the smell of it (sulphurous back-notes of the sewer not withstanding) attesting to its antiquity. Your mind stumbles over the text itself, your rudimentary-at-best understanding of the Dwarven language failing to grant you any further insights.

You tap your companion on the shoulder, “Could be real. Can’t read it, Dwarven. Have a look?” She takes the parchment from you, and glances down at the text. "That's… no, that's not Dwarven, it's…"

And then a lot of things happen very quickly indeed.

You awaken suddenly, your ears ringing.

Visions at Paracannia

Aurelia - The Blinding Light

I who am nothing,
I who am never,
I who am nobody,
I who am not:
I grant thee my dream, which is existence

I who am the ocean upon which all souls are islands,
I who am the wind upon the waters and the currents of the deep:
I grant thee my breath, which is the force of life

I who am the dark between the stars,
I who am the silence between the notes
and the gaps between the runes:
I grant thee my mouth, which is the vessel of creation

I who am the verdant and living land,
I who am the fire of the deep,
I who am the pillars of the earth and the heavens:
I grant thee my body, which is the material world and all within it

I WHO AM AZAU,
I WHO AM C'THOS,
I WHO AM AZOTH,
I WHO AM KA'AZIM, SOUL OF THE DIVINE:
I GRANT THEE MINE EYES
WHICH ARE THE PAST AND THE FUTURE

And your eyes open to be met by a blazing white light, brighter than anything you could imagine. You slump, almost falling, but a thousand spectral hands hold you aloft; you try to turn your head that you might not gaze upon the impossible, agonising brightness, but a thousand spectral hands turn you back. The light grows brighter and harsher with every second, and you instinctively screw your eyes shut; you can feel your skin blister under its terrible radiance, smell the acrid smoke of charred hair. The pain - the pain is unlike anything you have ever experienced.

You struggle to open your eyes despite the pain, your every fibre urging you to give in and be swallowed by the light. It takes every last ounce of will and effort to let your eyelids part even by the smallest of margins - for what mortal could possibly hope to gaze upon the impossible majesty of the godhead and live - and you find your nerve begin to falter and fail and...

You feel a hand upon your shoulder, and a whisper:

"Ahi na’ab ta’akh; ahi vur bab’eru"
(Pain is not beyond your spirit; pain is but the door of wisdom.)

And then your mind is clear.

You steel your resolve, and with an incredible effort force your eyes open and gaze into the light. The impossible brightness engulfs you, and for an eternity there is only the light, the brilliant, blinding light of the pure divine that erodes all other things.

A sudden rush of visions bombards your mind - too many, far too many for you to make sense of, but some snatched images remain.

A bolt of lightning from the jet-black night sky, striking the waves of a great silvery ocean.
Four great palaces that border upon an infinite wasteland.
An army of soldiers standing to attention, each forged entirely of a curious red-gold metal.
A horned woman with the tail of a serpent, shrouded by flames and bat-like wings, holding aloft a blazing torch.
Six doors that open into nothingness; six locks placed upon them, and six keys.
A wheel that spins eternally, grinding golden sand to dust.
A mountain which is the axis of the universe, around which eight thrones are arrayed, and one upon the highest peak.
A sword falls from the hand of the one that wields it; a bolt of nothingness splits the sun in two.
An angel of light, bound in chains of darkness.
A city of black stone where nothing living remains, save for the garden of the hyacinths.
A woman who kneels in prayer, her eyes fixed on the storm which rages upon the horizon; two immortal warriors dueling amid the killing winds; then a figure clad in armour and the tabard of the Sarian Sect, who steps into the storm without fear...

And then, a voice. A human voice.
"In my end is my beginning…"

Before you stands an angelic figure, frozen within a nimbus of light, its hand reached down to you as if in benediction. You kneel in supplication, and in a voice like thunder the angel speaks:

“Dura az-amatim, dura az-tz'atba’akh, akhtu’adh va akhtu’vek yoksh’an ud azimutiva ur-azel, ud ba’al-amir b’abbi’akh, ud ka’azim…”
(By the authority of the god that is broken, by the authority of the god that has been utterly destroyed, I establish you and command you to serve I who am greater than than the Twenty Four from the Celestial Vault, I who am lord and officer of those beyond that which is of spirit, I who am the soul of the divine…)

And then the booming voice is drowned out by a single whisper: “No.”

Behind you, a rising chorus of whispers begins to intrude upon your consciousness:
“...that Light be Kindled, Darkness must be Extinguished…”
“...Darkness of Ignorance, which exists where the Light shines not…”
“...worship not the False One who profanes the Light…”
“...and the gateway she bolted behind her…”
“...freely and fully-knowing of the consequence, under no threat, nor coercion, nor bribe…”
“... let this therefore be the first and only lie…”
“...from darkness the children are rising, and cursing tyrannical Light…”
“...that which unmakes, that it might be by the Light restored…”
“... thou art but apprentice in the ways of deceit…”
“... for I have beheld the Face of the King…”
“...Oblivion alone Corrupts the Light. Oblivion alone Slays the Light…”
“...let all that I am be sacrificed to the glorification of all that I shall become…”
“...that thou should be so blinded by my light as to mistake my reflection for truth…”
“...Darkness of Oblivion, which blots out the Light - That Which Approaches…”
“...how might one extinguish a flame which does not burn?...”
“...and the pillars do topple and tumble…”
“...by my Infinite Will…”
“...in my end is my beginning…”
“...without nightfall, how can there be dawn?...”
“...I AM INFINITY - AND I SHALL NOT BE SO BOUND!”

The angel convulses as the sky shatters, tendrils of darkness stretching from the gaping wound in reality and entwining around them. What is at first a filigree upon their silver skin becomes a host of thorns burrowing into their flesh, warping and corrupting their essence, and they scream in anguish and fear, reaching up to grasp at the stars as if to claw their way out of the collapsing sky. The thorns constrict - and fractures spiral out all across the angel’s skin, a perfect reflection of the shattered sky. Above the throng of whispered voices, one brings itself to the forefront of your awareness:

“... listen. You must listen to me. The title is not the name, and the name is not the title.I have seen what awaits in the garden of the hyacinths, though it cost me my life and so much more besides. They worship a lie, but the lie is only so effective because it is so close to the truth; thus as many who walk the liar’s path walk in righteousness as do in secret iniquity. There is a plan, and you must trust me. Look forever inward, and learn to distinguish our voices. The true Azoth lives on within us all - the true Kassin lives on within us all. That we become the Light, first must we face the Darkness within ourselves.”

Eibhleann and Teagan - the Words of Yrilu

"Aktu-an sh'atzim'akhali, sh’avhonetz-y’anev. Dura leth largem va eresh tz'atba'akh, aktu-vek vuur tah-kriosh ner'akh"

(I see you, servant of the Double-Anchor, servant of the Stolen Bridge. By authority of the Pierced Gate and the Land that has been Utterly Destroyed, I decree you to be nothing but a forgotten scream of the river of ghosts)

Eibhleann - That Which Was Fated

You see your death, a life extinguished with as little effort or concern
as someone swatting away a mosquito.

You see others descend into the pit of the Anima - a vessel recovered without your interference;
a door forced open by red-robed figures, cut down by the killing wind beyond.

Others follow, descending into the darkness,
and with fire and the sword and all the invisible powers of the air
making their way into the deepest of depths.

You see a great bastion in the centre of it all,
and within the bastion a great pillar of light.

You see Nicodemo, at the centre of the circle,
surrounded by eight red-robed acolytes
and the corpses of those who tried to stop him.
Among them, an elf, a dwarf, a dragonborn.

He places his hand upon the pillar
and finds not the answers he seeks,
but oblivion,
as the souls of the myriad surge through him
and turn the living and the dead to dust.

You see the storm clouds boiling away
above the ruins of a city of black stone;
armies marching through the desert;
a clash of steel, and blood upon the hyacinths.

A soldier stands before an iron sarcophagus, blade in hand;
and the seal is broken,
and the future is as a million shards of shattered glass
as the Light-who-is-Darkness returns to the world,
consuming the countless souls of the gathered armies
that war over the ruins of Tchokayahattak…

Teagan - The Subtlety of Chains I

“Ud k’at yok’ag; ud ytos yok’am’atem; ud yoklarguter t’alahm-gozgeshem”
(I cut the thread; I break the chain; I breach the walls of darkness)

… shadow-soldiers, called back from each and every death to fight a war long forgotten, losing a little more of themselves to the black iron chains with every time that they cross the threshold until they are as hollow as the ones in whose footsteps they walk…

… a woman who is a kraken, who is a thunderstorm and the raging ocean itself, bound in black iron chains far beneath the waves…

...an elf, an orc, and a human, their bleeding right hands wrapped together in black iron chains as their blood mingles together; a grim oath that might bind the will of the Destroyer to their own, that the Red Eye be but half-opened to rain down devastation on the world; an ancient darkness turned to liberation…

We are the Self-Sown Seeds of Destruction,
the Doom of Empires,
the Death of Kings,
the Inevitability of the Crumbling Order.
We are the Law that gives way to Chaos,
that a new Law might be formed from the ashes of the old.
We are the Revolution which devours its own Children,
itself to be devoured in its time when the wheel turns against it.
We are the spark of rebellion struck by the hammer of tyranny;
we are the slow decline that turns heroes to monsters,
and the slow ascent by which monsters do themselves heroes become.
We are born in every compromise, every concession,
every act of necessity and pragmatism
that leads to the circle returning upon itself;
we are the inexorable repetition of the mistakes of the past
in service of the dreams of the future.
We are Freedom, and all the price and consequences thereof.

Nikol - A Game of Questions I

Q: What is the Azoth now?
A: Dispersed

Q: What became of the High Gods?
A: Some fell. Some rise.

Q: What are the prime forces of existence?
A: Earth, Water, Air, Fire, Time, Space, Will, Fate

Q: What is it that you lie to yourself about?
A: Justification

Echo - A Death Remembered

Your ears are ringing, your vision blurred, and - worst of all - you appear to be lying in a good two inches or so of standing water and runoff from the sewer. You are also in a lot of pain, but the bloodloss and adrenaline seem to be numbing it quite effectively, all things considered. The orc is somewhere nearby, out of your vision; you try to sit up but your body stubbornly refuses to cooperate. You glance down, and note that you do at least still seem to have the requisite number of limbs. You turn your head as much as you can, and catch sight of the tiefling kneeling over the body of your companion. An odd slurping noise seems to be coming from their direction, though you can’t quite make out what is making the noise.

The kenku -- not Ever-Ascending Glissando, you notice, approximately five minutes after that information would have been useful -- leans over you, pressing a small metal rod to your forehead.

“You. Tell me the Unutterable Word”

You try to shut your mind as you have been taught, but you find a voice rising within your throat despite yourself as the enchanter starts to force their way past your defences. A thought flashes across your mind - give in now, and perhaps they’ll mistake obedience for cooperation. Right now, that’s about the best option you have.

“Gu’kia-ma’akh!lei’atelu…”

The enchanter makes a noise that sounds like a porcelain plate shattering against a wall, and the pressure in your mind vanishes.

“Enough. Too much to hope for that you might know something interesting, I suppose.”

You are left to catch your breath, as the other kenku leaves your side. You start to reach for the vial of dragon’s blood stashed up your sleeve...

From the edge of your vision, you see the tiefling rise to their feet. “We’ve got what we need. What else do you want me to look for?”

“Hollow her out. Take everything.”

“That’s going to kill her. If she dies…”

“If such a small thing as that could kill her permanently, I guarantee that none of us would be in this position in the first place. Do it.”

“The amount of memories she has, the host won’t survive either. Not without budding off. We’d risk losing what we came here for.”

“Fine. I see that you idiots have put your two-thousand years of rehearsal time entirely to waste. Siphon off the essentials, leave the host.”

“What about the ghost crow?”

“Kill it. It knows nothing of consequence.”

Moments later, the tiefling appears above you, sword in hand.

“Nothing personal. Shame you picked the wrong side of history to be on, I guess.”

You remain silent. They will not have the satisfaction of seeing you beg for your life.

The sword falls. The pain is perhaps less than you were expecting - or at least, it only lasts a moment. Then there is a growing darkness; then only the rain and the persistent slurp-slurp-slurp from nearby.

And then, for a long time, there is nothing at all.

Visions at the Gilded Tower

Aurelia’s Dream - A Hero’s Doom

Around you, the sound of swords clashing against swords, the cries of the dead and the dying, the noise of battle. You stride out in front of your army, a conquering general, an unstoppable force. You are filled with a palpable sense of power - the word “godlike” comes unbidden to your mind. You have slain gods, and will do so again; the world will tremble before your triumph.


As the Kassinite paladins try in vain to hold the line against the rushing tide of your army, you see four of the paladins move towards you - one on horseback, their banner fluttering in the wind, sunlight gleaming off their closed helm; the others on foot. You see the resolve in their faces as the three humans move towards you - but they haven’t even drawn their swords. Something is happening, you realise - and they you hear as they begin to call out in unison:

We are the First,
We are the Last,
We are the Loyal.
We are the true heirs of the Lone Flame,
First to pledge allegience to Victorious Night and the Expectation of Dawn,
Last to hold the bridge of Eku against the Ravenous Void Below,
Loyal to the Dream of the Fifth Dawn.
We alone serve that Dream,
Above tribe and nation,
Above creed and ideology,
Above even the Nine Martyrs who blazed the trail upon which we walk.
We are united in service of the Tribes of Earth,
United by our shared bond under the Oath of Night,
To whom all oathbreakers are kin.
We are the Star of Hope:
The Light that is dimmed, but never extinguished.
We shall return, as we have returned before.
We shall remember, as we have remembered before.
We shall rise, as we have risen before.
Light shall drive out the Darkness of this world, as surely as the day drives out the night,
For by our oath we shall yet stand!
From our deaths, and yea even from the annihilation of our souls shall we be reborn!
For our end is our beginning!
Our dusk is our dawn!
We give our lives for the Dream, that we stand against Oblivion,
And by our Infinite Wills combined:
Lubor an Kaliset,
Sathrazapash,
Azithurapash,
We free this soul from your grip!
We shatter your essence as it was shattered by the Ravens of Death!
We scatter you once more to the four corners of the world!
It is done! It is done! It is done!

The breath catches in your chest, and that feeling of power is suddenly gone. You barely have time to register what has just happened, or the fact that the three paladins have fallen to the ground, blood pouring from their dead eyes, when you feel every hair on your body stand on end.


You glance up - and there is a blazing white light, brighter than the sun.


And then, there is nothing.

Eliyah’s Memory fragments

Click.


You look out towards the great walled city in the distance, and see a sudden blazing light bloom and engulf it. In that moment you know - something has gone horribly, horribly wrong.


Click.


You limp through the dry and rock-strewn gulley, half-carrying your companion; several dragons pass above you. As you reach the crest of the hill and gaze back, you see the darkness rising, condensing, collapsing in on itself. You realise that for now you have won - but at what cost?


Click.


You step into the tomb. Kab Melekh. You place a bag down by the altar, turn, and leave.


Click.


You catch your reflection in the mirror. An orc, an elaborate red tattoo wrapping around one eye socket. The same tattoo that Dendri has.


Click.


It is raining - but no, not water. Blood, perhaps, or oil. You look up, and the clouds are iridescent. Before you, amid the howling winds, a figure screams at you. You shout back, barely coherent over the storm - that it’s not too late, that not all hope has been lost, that there are other options, that the time where there is no alternative but to use the weapon is not yet here. They turn, and keep walking into the storm. Knowing you have no choice, you draw your sword, and cut them down.


Click.


You are in a camp or stockade of some kind. Behind you, a portal has opened, the wounded are evacuated. In front of you, the soldiers rush the gate. Ten, a dozen, twenty… you hear a shout from behind you, telling you to retreat - but if you don’t hold the gateway, then all of them will die. You steady your grip on your weapon. These people have no idea what you are truly capable of…


Click.


It is raining, actually raining this time, and you are sloshing through the flooded streets with a kenku in tow. You are walking into a trap, you realise - but a trap so-baited that you cannot possibly refuse it.


The kenku turns to you: “If this goes wrong…”


“If it goes wrong, a lot of things are going to happen very quickly. I’ll get between them and you, and you get out of there as fast as you can. Do you have the vial?” The kenku nods. “Good. The moment it looks like things are about to get unpleasant… well. I’ll be going loud, put it that way.”


They reply with the sound of a distant explosion.


Click.


Same street, same rain, same sulfurous open-sewer stench. You are talking to a tiefling, when the kenku at your side taps you on shoulder with the scroll.


“Could be real. Can’t read it, Dwarven. Have a look?”


You take the scroll. Glancing down at the arcane sigil that slowly forms before your eyes, you hear yourself say, in a moment of sheer unbelieving stupidity that surprises even you: "That's… no, that's not Dwarven, it's…"


And then the warding glyph goes off.


Click.


You are lying in the stinking, filthy water. Everything hurts. A tiefling and a kenku - a different kenku - move into your line of vision.


“Hmm,” says the kenku, looking down at you, “yes, that’s them. Over to you, I’ll deal with the ghost-crow.”


Click.

Aurelia's Dream - The Storm Opens

Your reading earlier this evening has shaken your mind, and your sleep is fitful and broken by strange dreams. It is as if that action has dragged up something from the depths, that is now stirring within the shadowy ocean of your dreams - something enormous and terrifying, yet at the same time, oddly compelling.
It is to that vision of an ocean that your mind is drawn; and in your dreams you struggle to the surface as the churning waves and lashing winds tear the sinking ship to splinters behind you. Again and again you fall beneath the waves; and again and again you kick back towards the surface, gasping for breath. And as your strength begins to fail you, and the ocean begins to swallow you for the final time, at the edge of your hearing comes a whispered voice:
“Yok'anao tem!”
Behold the beginning!
Far above you, the clouds part as a flash of light splits the heavens. Faster than a diving falcon, a speck of blinding golden light descends - becomes a blurred streak of lightning - becomes a shape - becomes a winged figure - and breaks the surface of the ocean, enfolding you in its wings and dragging you to the surface. As you cough seawater from your half-drowned lungs, the angel carries you in its arms across the furious ocean, placing you at last upon a piece of floating debris.
It speaks again - and you do not recognise the words, but the meaning is somehow clear: "Rest, my child. It is not yet your time to go. Forgive me, that I could not save the others - perhaps you shall understand some day."
And the storm fades into a deeper sleep.
An eternity passes in dreamless silence, and then you feel a gust of wind, carrying a harsh and dry sand with it. The sun beats down upon you and your companions, and the salt crunches under your boots as you trudge towards the spiraling wall of wind. Again, the voice whispers:
“Yok'anao ng!”
Behold the end!
You turn to your companions - fewer, far fewer than had begun this doomed journey - each clad, like you, in the colours of the divided sun. You are close enough now to the stormwall that you can almost feel tendrils of its deadly power reaching out to tear away your soul. Almost.
"This is it. We're close enough", you hear yourself say. "Strike camp. Sunset is hours away."
You erect your tattered and sunbleached tents there, which you have dragged by makeshift sled for the past four days. It is perhaps a mercy, you find yourself thinking, that you had killed the last of the mules before approaching so close to the maddening tempest that paints the sky with its sickly iridescence. You drink the last of your water, and eat the last of your meagre rations in silence - for what is there to be said now, upon your day of reckoning?
As the sun begins to set, you lead your companions in prayer, lifting your thirst-cracked voices to speak the Tongue of the Divine:
Telao ‘aza’a, ‘azahdem, ‘az’am’atem, yok’athao wd-azil’ash
Thou who art the First God, the Rightful God, the Broken God, hear our prayer
Telao sha’a, sha-ahdem, sha’am’atem, yok’athao wd-azil’ash
Thou who art the First Sun, the Rightful Sun, the Broken Sun, hear our prayer
Telao aoma’a, aomahdem, aom’am’atem, yok’athao wd-azil’ash
Thou who art the First Will, the Rightful Will, the Broken Will, hear our prayer
Telao bel-amer, telao tem m’a-ozlegesh, telao k’a-’azim, yok’athao wd-azil’ash
Thou who art our lord and commander, thou who art the source of all creation, thou who art the soul of the divine, hear our prayer
The power is palpable. You lift your eyes to the horizon, and see the sun dipping below the shattered mountains. You begin the oration, switching to the common tongue for the sake of your companions, trusting in your serpentine tutors insistence that it is not the resonance of the words but the Purity of Intent which matters:
"Open is the Gate of the Setting Sun: Unbarred is the Path of Yrilu. I stand between Day and Night, at the point of balance; I become the Pivot about which the stars turn. I who am living, do call out to the watchful dead."
Your companions raise their voices in reply: "We who are living give voice to the dead"
You trace the star in the air before you, the force of your will and the pressure of the building magic leaving shimmering lines in the air: "Qar, Anhydra, Var'akha; Zelek, Mar'a, Kolyara"
And your companions reply: "Six are the Voices, Six the Gates, Six the Keys"
You focus your mind, and for a second the wind seems to fall silent as you utter that most final and fatal oath: "By the Blood of the Azoth and the Dead of Tchokayahattak; by the Dragons Beyond and my Immaculate Will - the storm shall part before me, and I shall return, bearing truth!”
And your companions reply: “It is witnessed, it is done”
The storm roars about you once more, building to a crescendo - and you walk forward without fear into the killing winds.
“Yok’anao! Wdng levek wdtem!”
Behold! My end is my beginning!
And you wake with a start.

Visions in Lith Kala

Nikol - A Game of Questions II

Q: What does it mean to 'Behold the Face of the King'?
A: To understand the nature of reality and what rules it

Q: What is it about the nature of reality which the Paragons learned which drove them to swear the Oath of Night?
A: Sentience is an aberration.

Q: What do you want from me?
A: To understand you.

Q: What do you want to change about existence?
A: That we are bound, limited, and imprisoned within.

Q: What was your level of influence over the Paragons?
A: They acted of their own free will. We provided information, limited in certain ways, but not direction or expectation of how they would act. They acted on their will, not ours.

Eibhleann - The Riddle of the Willow-Bound King

“You shall come to me dressed in robes that have never been touched by needle or thread, bringing the moon sealed in a clay vessel, and you shall thrice speak my true name - which I cannot tell you.”

Aurelia - the Bliss of Ignorance

In your dreams you find yourself climbing a spiral staircase that runs around the edge of a great ruined tower. The wind howls around you, flurries of snow and ice pelting you and blinding your eyes - which is at times merciful, sparing you from looking downward - but you press on, knowing that there is no turning back now. Only onward, only upward.

You reach the top of the stairs, and find at the apex of the tower a stone shrine, hexagonal in form, with an iron door set into each wall. Each door is engraved with images of dragons and stars, and writing in some ancient pictographic script which you do not recognise.

The words and gestures come easy to your mind; by word and by will, you open the doors:

Qar. Anhydra. Var’akha. Zelek. Mar’a. Kolyara.
Six are the Voices.
Six are the Gates.
Six are the Keys.

The doors slide open, and a brilliant light shines out from within. For a moment it is overwhelming in its intensity, and you reel back despite yourself; but then the light seems to soften slightly, and you become able to gaze upon it. Within the chamber you see a figure made entirely of light; humanoid in form, with great feathered wings, they stand a full head taller than you. Their face is vaguely canine, and their body covered in fur; at their belt they carry a great sword of light, and upon one shoulder they wear a pauldron in the form of a lion’s head. Their voice is soft, breathy, and almost musical; there is something intensely comforting about their presence.

“I am that which you have ever sought. The unbegotten source from which was kindled the flame of the universe. The final ember of the world-that-could-have-been that has been kept alight across all these aeons of chaos and darkness. I am the first, the last, the all and the none: I am Aza, I am Cthos; I am Azoth and Alkahest; and I am Ka’azim, Soul of the Divine”

“You have traveled far to find me, Aurelia Dawnbringer; and it pains my heart to say that you shall surely travel to the very ends of the earth in time. But for now, I grant you peace and my blessing. Be here, be here with me, and rest. Soon there will come a time of war and bloodshed, a time of fire and purification, a time in which I will call upon you to become the instrument of my will - to lead those who stray back unto the fold, and to burn out all that is corrupt within my church. But for now - I grant your mind rest and release. Will you grant me this?”


Unmoved, you draw your sword. The angel seems taken aback for a moment; then a decidedly un-angelic smirk forms upon its face.

“A little too much perhaps. Maybe we underestimated you. Many would simply accept the image of that which they hoped to be true as if it were in and of itself true. We shall take our leave; but we shall speak again.”

You swing - and with a blast of cold air, the angel of light crumbles into dust and scatters to the winds. And as the dream begins to fade, you hear a human voice: "I cannot stay for long. This is it's dream, not either of ours. You have questions, I'm sure."

"The entity that brought you here was Goldentongue. It is also, after a fashion, Kassin."

"Theophana did not lie; nor was she fooled. Where she erred, it was only from her lack of knowledge; she was at least half-right in all that she preached. The rot set in only after her death, when minds easier to manipulate began to confuse the symbol with that which it indicated. They saw only that which they wanted to see."

"My name was Isabella, as you have probably guessed by now. I was one of Kassin's faithful. I suppose I still am. I did not know the truth until the final days of my life - you seem to have caught on far faster than I."

"Be alert to its wiles. Trust nothing that seems too good to be true, or too terrible to be false. It is both much stronger, and much weaker than you know. I will guide you, if I can."

Teagan - The Subtlety of Chains II

In your dreams, you find yourself standing above a great loom, on which are arrayed myriad threads of brilliant light. Far below, you see that same arachnoid form that you glimpsed in the cave, fashioned of marble and brass, shot through by veins of silky darkness. Sha'asek, the Spider of Fate, walking gently across the strands of the wyrd as infinite possibilities stretch across the loom. It moves silently and unseen, its purpose and position impossible to fathom, each step treading the thrumming lines between tyrannical law and desolate chaos. Ancient and patient, it spins no webs of its own, but merely tends to the paths that others have made. When it hunts, its prey are caught in the webs that they themselves have woven.

Your vision shifts to the threads across which Sha'asek treads, and it is there that you glimpse another figure. It, too, is composed of the same marble and brass as the great spider, but it is corroded and stained with soot. At first glance it appears akin to a statue of a winged centaur, damaged and missing its left hand; its marble countenance was perhaps once beautiful, but the right side of its head is cracked and ruined. Your gaze rests on it for only a moment - when suddenly it turns its head towards you, and opens its one remaining eye, which blazes with a terrible red light. You feel a tightening sensation around your chest, as if chains were wrapping themselves around you, and then a voice:

"I am the End of Empires, that was by blood and tears brought into this world before the ice departed. The sword that you carry was destined for another; and yet it now serves you. In taking up the sword, you take up its purpose and its burden. Power begets power; yet order must inevitably crumble into chaos so that a new order may emerge in its place. Awaken that which sleeps beneath the woods. Break the chains that bind the many and the meek. Topple the thrones of the few and the mighty. Burn it all - or stand aside and let another take up your burden."

And yet you refuse. Perhaps this cycle, too, is just one more chain to break.

There is a movement across the threads, and you see two other cloaked and hooded figures moving towards the centaur; they knee in supplication before it, each holding up a weapon towards the centaur: a bow, and a wooden staff. The centaur rears up, spreading its wings, and the light from its eye blazes into a great inferno, engulfing everything in its incredible radiance. The chains about your body fall away, and you feel an intoxicating rush of power, as if anything might be possible. There is a path before you, by which you could remake the world - if you chose to take it. But the price that you must pay for that power will only be known in retrospect.

Visions in Rostog

Thiela - The Sight of Dragons

Deep in the empty blue expanse, the ocean-which-is-not-an-ocean, which separates all worlds, floats the Messenger. For five hundred years it has floated here in this place-that-is-not-a-place, an ominous black statue suspended in the void, silent and motionless. Whether dead, slumbering or simply waiting, even those dread creatures which call the Blue Abyss their home know better than to disturb it.
You watch, as through the darkling gloom emerges a figure shrouded in robes, their face concealed behind the mask that they wear to protect themselves from this place and the attention of its inhabitants. They kneel before the Messenger in acknowledgement, and begin to speak; the tongue is unknown to you, but the halting inflection is all too recognisable - a plea for help, a prayer for intercession. The last hope of the desperate.
Through it all, the Messenger stands impassive; it is only when the figure at last falls silent, their words trailing off into the endless blue, that it begins to react. A slight creaking, as sockets and joints that have not moved in centuries loosen; the Messenger straightens itself, its eyes opening and issuing forth an unearthly green light, and with a voice that seems to shake the foundations of the world, it speaks:
If Fate has decreed such, then Fate is itself flawed. No god is above reproach; not even the great Archons. We shall make the adjustment. The Messenger raises its hand and twists, as if turning a wheel, and a sudden vibration thrums through the not-ocean. Ripples of colour flow from its outstretched fingertips - blue and green, purple and yellow and white, and a sixth colour that is unlike any colour that exists in the waking world - twisting and dancing as they coalesce into an pearlescent orb that hangs in the void between the Messenger and the petitioner. Then like a seedpod the orb splits open, blooming into an lotus-like flower of light, growing and expanding into an infinite fractal blossom. The flower grows and spreads, penetrating and infiltrating all things - and then, as suddenly as it appeared, it is gone.
The world has changed, though you know not how. The Messenger, its work done at last, lowers its arm, and the light that emits from its eyes begins to dwindle and fade. Slowly, ever so slowly, you see patches of greyish corrosion appear upon the pristine black armour of the Messenger, as bit by bit it crumbles into dust that is lost upon the currents of the not-ocean.
Soon enough, it has faded entirely, and the petitioner is alone. They stay there for some time, contemplating what it is that they have wrought upon the world, before at last they rise, and walk off into the darkling gloom. They do not look back.

Nikol - Chrysalis

You dream that you are a silkworm, crawling upon the mulberry tree. Day after day you gorge yourself on the leaves, but your hunger is never sated. You grow, shedding the restrictive forms that are no longer of use to you, unaware of your ultimate destination and the transformation that you must undergo. Soon enough, you begin to weave your silken cocoon around yourself, that by this sacred alchemy of life you might become something new.
In your cocoon, you dream that you are a goblin, crawling upon the earth. Day after day you struggle towards some greater goal, but it is never achieved. You grow, shedding the restrictive ideas that are no longer of use to you, unaware of your ultimate destination and the transformation that you must undergo. And soon enough, you begin to weave your cocoon of sin and power - which have always and will always be the same - bound about by grief and guilt and Will.
Your soul bubbles within the cocoon; your soul is the cocoon. These dichotomies of truth and dream are not absolute; you are the caterpillar and the goblin in equal measure. Within the cocoon of your soul, twice abstracted and thus twice true, you dream.
You see them there, as they once were - as you once were. Perfect creatures of Earth, who stood at the apex of mind, body, and spirit. Let the elves play at being gods, and the dragonblooded labour under the too-welcome lies of their masters; let the dwarves have their laws and the orcs their wisdom, both mere ciphers of that which they displaced. Let the humans have their oceans and the halflings their rivers and swamps, poor ice-born people that they are. For the earth is given unto the Bhuka, the True Tribe, the Dauntless Tribe, the Unconquerable Tribe.
Some would say that the gods did curse you for your hubris and that this was just; others, that the gods were afraid of what you might become. Others still, that the end of your race was preordained from the very beginning, and the gods had nothing to do with it. In the end, these trichotomies are just as false.
You see your perfect ancestors sicken with every passing generation, until you can no longer stand against those lesser-gods, those immortals called Eladrin. You see the yoke of dominion fall upon you; in the East, your fields are salted and your cities burn, their ruins ploughed into the sand, their names forgotten and erased. And in the West, no lesser indignity - a conquest from within, by humans and your own backward cousins, the pech-children they called the Knowing Ones. Your lands are claimed, your great works undone, your gods cast down and forgotten, and your deeds attributed to others.
Did they expect you to fade away? Did they expect you to lay down and die? Have not your people always been survivors - even now, twice shattered and once reforged, is this not the quintessence of your kin?
You stir in your cocoon, and know that you are dreaming. There is no path back to what once was. But there is a path forward, if you dare to tread it. You stand upon a deadly precipice, lightning flashing around you. How easy it would be to take shelter. But how glorious it would be to seize the lightning and be born anew.

Eibhlean - Seasons of the Exile

The first time you met her was in Shas’Ellith, long before it all went wrong. You were, by the standards of your people, young and foolish, an eternal child of Spring; she was at the apex of her life, and she was beautiful. She danced the Rite of the Oak with an energy that few could match, and scoffed at the whispers that called it crude, even obscene, that a bhuka should lead such a dance. You flirted, of course, hoping to win her love, but she had her eyes set on another, as is often the way of things; and soon you, too, found another, and another beyond that, and so on and so forth.
You next met her in the Summer of your life, after the revolution and the wars of liberation. She was older, and sickly, but the flame burned within her just as it burned within you. You spent but a little time with her - for you were soon to march with the Third Cohort against the holdouts in the South, in support of the Host of Rusthkotha, and she was engrossed in some great work of a secretive nature of which she could not speak - but in that time you grew a little closer.
The third time you met her was after your Ascension - unplanned and unprepared as you were, both for your Ascension, and for her return. Now, your thoughts often return to the question of that Crown, and how you came to receive it. It took you centuries before you were certain beyond all doubt of the identity of the one who had delivered it to you; and longer still before you could fathom what their true motivation might have been. Even now, you cannot be entirely certain. But this is now, beyond Autumn and Winter; and back then, you had no such thoughts.
She was the frenzied beast who made the world anew; you were the Prince of the Fallen Leaves, the Keystone and the Anchor. You were both as gods; and the love that blossomed between you was nothing if not divine. She had other lovers, of course, with Ceneric chief among them; but this was her nature and you were never jealous. How could you possibly cage her, when she was infinite? How could you restrain her, when she was life itself?
The Autumn of your life was long. Your fragile kingdom did not prosper, exactly, but it did survive. A half-empty world, a mere shadow of what it had once been - but neither dead nor entirely fallen into ruin. The leaves turned red and the wind scattered them, but Winter was held back by your Will, and it was peaceful. Gradually, she visited less and less, though when she did, it was as if she had never left.
Her children visited your court from time to time, and to them you played the magnanimous patron. Their wars were not your wars, but when they spoke of the traitor-kingmaker who now called himself the Lord of the Tower, your heart could not remain unmoved. And when they asked you of her, and told you of their plans, you of course promised whatever aid you could, even sending your most skilled apprentice to help them in their endeavour.
When you saw her for the final time, your heart turned toward Winter. She hurt so terribly, in body and in soul, and you offered what comfort you could. But it was never enough - it could never be enough; and by the hand of her own children she was cut down and bound to the earth. And your rage burned until the fire extinguished itself, and all that remained were tears which froze as your kingdom - bound by Crown and Will and Dream - grew cold with your sorrow.
And yet, it was not despair that forced you from your throne, but hope. One last path that might be trodden, one last fire that might be stolen from the gods. One last chance to put all of this right. And thus you cast down your Crown and took up your Sword; you opened a door between the stars, and you stepped through - and behind you, your kingdom crumbled.
Beyond the seasons, you wandered for an age, until Time itself opened its doors to you. You beheld the empty throne within the ruined palace. You beheld the river, without source nor destination. You beheld the end that once would have been, the doom that came to Tomorrow, and from the sealed archives of the future that never was, you found what you needed. A name that never existed, and a prophecy unuttered, the unspoken words of the Voice of Qar which was and is and shall ever be engraved upon the foundation-stones of Creation:
All things have their end. But we are not without mercy, nor compassion for your plight. A way opens. The choice to enter is yours. And in those words, you found wisdom.

Teagan - By Horror Haunted

You ran, of course. She had told you to run, and so you ran, and hid, and crept. You weren’t near enough to see her fall, but you felt it when she died, that faint light in the back of your mind suddenly extinguished; and when the soldiers swept through the woods looking for any who may have stood with the Heresiarch, you hid among the brambles and the bracken and prayed to the Shadow that they might pass you by. You don’t know how long you lay there, paralysed by fear, before the hunger and the thirst became too great for you to ignore, and you crawled out from your hiding place. The first mouthful of river-water was like the nectar of the gods.
You didn’t go back for her body. She had always been very clear on that issue - that if she was to fall, you were not to try and bring her back. And so, with nowhere to go, you wandered the woods. You broke into a farm one night and filled your pockets with eggs from the chicken coup, you ate them raw, not wanting to risk an open fire. After a few days you reached a small town, and cloaking yourself in illusions you chanced a meal in a taverna. Two soldiers passed through while you were eating, and you overheard them talking of orders to search the woods for a runaway slave - a girl, fair skinned, straw-haired, undernourished and scarred. Your stomach tied itself in knots and it took all your strength not to react as they supped their beer mere feet away from you.
You knew you couldn’t run forever. Your face was known; sooner or later someone would see through your illusions, and that would be that. And so it was that you went into the woods again that night, and whistled to the moon that secret melody which Tullia had taught you for summoning up the spirits of the night. And when the grinning owl arrived, you spoke the words as you had been taught them, and followed it into the dark heart of the wood. And so you came at last to the hut of Auntie Foxglove to plead your case.
As you cower in the corner, your staff broken on the floor, the hag looming over you, you find yourself wondering just how much thought Tullia had actually put into this particular backup plan.
“Eikos servi Tulia. A foolish little girl, playing with things that she does not understand; ignorant of warnings, ignorant of her own limitations, and worst - ignorant of her own ignorance. A horrible little creature, running from her own shadow. Just like your mistress. No, there will be no reprieve for you. Playtime is over, petal; now is the time for the settling of debts.”
You shudder, panic overtaking you. Desperately you try to recall what it was that Tullia had said - those words that you could say to Foxglove that would, if everything went entirely wrong, perhaps save you.
“I... I choose the path of the owl and the crow, the path of the knife and the spindle…”
Foxglove glowers at you. “Piffle. Now you’re just repeating words that you’ve heard somewhere, without even knowing what they mean, hoping that they’ll get you out of the mess that you’ve landed yourself in.”
You shrink from her, clasping your arms about your knees, repeating the phrase over and over again: “I choose the path of the owl and the crow, the path of the knife and the spindle… I choose the path of the owl and the crow, the path of the knife and the spindle…”
“Urgh. And I suppose you’d swear the whole bloody Oath of Night too, if Tullia had told you the words to it?”
“...path of the owl and the crow, the path of the knife and the spindle…”
“Oh shut up, girl. Fine. In the name of the First, I acknowledge your claim of sanctuary, bare minimum that it may be, to be valid. The blood-queen shall have no claim on your soul whilst you remain under my protection, nor shall the Wolf-Eaters find you. Thus it is spoken, thus it is fated. Is that sufficient? Now let me think.”
You remain in the corner, silent save for the rapid beating of your heart. Foxglove sinks into her filthy chair, lights a pipe of foul-smelling smokeleaf, and puffs away at it in sullen silence. Minutes pass, then she nods to herself, and knocks out the smouldering embers on the table leg, grinding them into the floor with her bare foot absentmindedly.
“How old are you, girl?”
“Nineteen, Mistress.”
“Don’t you bloody ‘Mistress’ me. Next it’ll be ‘Wise One’, or ‘Good Lady, or what-ever-have-you, and sooner or later some idiot will start claiming I’m a goddess. No time for that rubbish.”
“Sorry”
“Call me Foxglove. Auntie, if you must. Nineteen. And you were Tullia’s slave all your life?”
“Her apprentice, Auntie…”
“You weren’t her bloody apprentice - she owned you! Hypocrite that she was. Oh yes, I’m sure she treated you very well, three meals a day and a nice straw bed to sleep on and all that… pah, who am I kidding. Point is, you’ve never meaningfully been free, no? It wasn’t like you could have turned around and said ‘oh, sorry Tullia, I don’t want to devote my life to your pointless fucking crusade, I’d rather raise sheep and learn to play the harp’, or what-ever-have-you?”
“I… suppose not, Auntie”
“Good. Good - hah, well, not good for you, but… we can work with that.” She leans back in her chair, one filthy fingernail scraping the tar from out of the smoking pipe, which she wipes on her skirt.
“I can help you, girl. And I think that I will help you. I owe you nothing, Eikos; but you did speak the words and as you were never released from Tullia’s service, I must assume that you spoke them with her blessing and by her command. And I, regrettably, owe Tullia a great deal. It would therefore be incumbent upon me to acquiesce to her apparent wish, and take on her… “apprentice”... for tuition, up until such a time as she should ask for your return to her service or until we should both agree that there is nothing that I have left to teach you. As such, I will of course extend to you my hospitality and my protection for as long as you remain my ward, and you will agree to serve me in all matters relating to your tuition. Do we have a deal, Eikos servant of Tullia?”
You nod. “Deal”
Foxglove cracks her knuckles and grins. She hawks up a lump of phlegm and spits it into her palm, then looms over you again, extending her hand. Hesitantly, you shake it.
“Good. I knew there’d be some sense in there. You won’t need to swear the full oath, and honestly, it’s better if you don’t. Nasty piece of work, that one. But you will need to swear to the code - and it is very important that I don’t catch you breaking the code. Do you understand?”
You nod.
“Do you? Tell me - what do you understand it to mean?”
“That I must swear to uphold a code, and I mustn’t break it”
Foxglove snorts. “Youth today. Let me reiterate. It is very important that I don’t catch you breaking the code. Understand? Do you need me to spell it out to you - assuming you can read?”
“No, Auntie, I… I understand it.”
“Good. Then repeat after me, for thus is the Code of Nine Sorrows:”
Thou shalt not prevent that which is fated from coming to pass: this is the first sorrow. Thou shalt not grant my blessings to those who have not earned them: this is the second sorrow. Thou shalt not stand in judgement in place of the Six: this is the third sorrow. Thou shalt not lie nor break thine oaths: this is the fourth sorrow. Thou shalt not interfere with the passage of the mortal soul: this is the fifth sorrow. Thou shalt not share thine secret knowledge with the unworthy: this is the sixth sorrow. Thou shalt not pledge allegiance to any nation: this is the seventh sorrow. Thou shalt not attempt to achieve apotheosis: this is the eighth sorrow. Thou shalt not ally thyself with the Paragons: this is the ninth sorrow.
You repeat the words back, not fully understanding them, but understanding well enough that it is better, for one in your position, not to fully understand them.
Foxglove smiles again. “Very good. There is just one more small thing I need from you, petal. If I’m to protect you, I’ll need to keep an eye on you. Hold very still; I promise you this will only hurt for a moment…”
And as her filthy, razor-sharp nails reach for your eye, you hold your breath and try very hard not to scream…

Aurelia - At the Wall

For the most part your dreams are inchoate and formless, images arising and collapsing into each other without ever fully separating. People become statues, become trees, become columns of stone, become mountains and the sky, become the ocean and the stars reflected in the depths, become the eyes of the creatures of the deep, become the sun and the shadows. And through it all, a lilting refrain:
shereng te-ba’akh, sheum-mar’a telao; get’a yokther’a kel ver k’asu z’akao O ring of all lightning, thou art the wind of death; thou guardest the place where only the soulless may crawl And then silence.
Your mind slides into place. The sun beats down and the wind whips against you. The snail-shell goggles clamped to your eyes and the cloth wraps bound about your head at least limit the volume of sand and dust that get through, but beneath them your fur is matted with sweat and grime. Again you curse yourself for having agreed to bring these idiot foreigners so far into the desert; the fact that the feline hadn't even bothered to try and haggle you down on the absurdly-high price you had initially named should have been sufficient warning for you to skip town and never show your head there ever again. But no, you got greedy, and now you were going to have to suffer.
You reach the top of the ridgeline, confirm that you are where you think you are - for as you explained a dozen times to the expedition, neither maps nor navigators can be entirely trusted this near to the centre - and, satisfied that the desert has not played you for a fool this time, you pull yourself into the lee of a nearby rock for some brief respite from the wind. Two miles from the stormwall. Far enough away that you're not coughing up blood or struggling for breath, close enough for that faint sense of unease to be almost palpable. As close as anyone with a hair of sense would want to spend more than the shortest amount of time possible. You've heard enough tales of prospectors coming back without fur or teeth, if they came back at all, that you're wary of going any closer, even with the purple salts that offset the worst of it.
You sip from your canteen as the rest of the expedition draw near; their mules wide-eyed and nostrils flaring, sensing the danger that they are being led into. You often find yourself thinking that mules are rather more sensible than people in this regard. Less prone to ignoring their finely-tuned sense of danger just because someone dangles a sack of coin under their nose.
The mule-handlers set up their camp, and the three foreigners that you have identified as the leaders of this strange band - the dragonborn, the goliath, and the feline - approach you. They go over their intentions once more, asking the same questions, to which you give the same answers. Yes, prospectors do come this close. Not many, not often; the foolhardy and the desperate. Yes, the paths are marked; no, the markings are not entirely reliable - follow my tracks as closely as you can, and if I tell you to run - then run. Take the first dose of salt at the two mile mark, ten minutes before you start marching; don’t bother counting your paces, but look for the inner ring of cairns and you’ll find the one mile mark. When you get to the cairns, take the second dose, and pray that whatever damn thing you’re looking for is swiftly found.
Again, they ask: has anyone ever tried to cross the stormwall? Again you answer: yes, because there are always idiots who think that they’re cleverer than all those dry bones that litter the sand.
And again, they ask: is anyone said to have succeeded - even a rumour or tall-tale of the desert? And again, you answer: no. The stormwall has always been there, and none have ever crossed it - or if they have, none have ever returned.
You eat with the mule-handlers, huddled in the windbreaks at the bottom of the ridge. Rice, beans, dried goat sausages; the soldiers (for they must be soldiers, and mercenaries at that) and their three leaders keep to themselves. After an hour, the goliath beckons you over, and you know the time is upon you; muttering a quick prayer to any god that happens to be listening, you swallow the salt, and run over the instructions once more. A dozen mercenaries, plus the three leaders, plus you. A bigger party than you’d want, and closer to the stormwall than you’d want - but your job was just to get them there. Then you could just sit back and wait for them to do whatever the hell it was that they were planning on doing, and if they all got themselves killed doing it, well, that was their problem. They’d paid you in advance, after all.
The path towards the cairns is easier than anticipated. The mercenaries are well-trained and follow your instructions to the letter. As you reach the wind-scoured stones, you swallow a second phial of the salt, gagging as its acrid taste burns the back of your throat. The three leaders converge by one of the cairns as the mercenaries form up into a defensive perimeter facing out into the desert. The goliath opens her pack, pulls out a series of intricate brass devices like navigational instruments, and begins to set them up and take measurements; as she does so, the dragonborn and the feline fall into what they had obviously intended to be a hushed conversation, but which ends up being shouted over the noise of the winds. You still can’t quite place the language that they talk in between themselves; it’s not the old tongue of the Clans - but it isn’t a world away from it. You catch a few words - forwyrd, destruction; haeftling, captive; eoten, giant; freced, danger - but little else. There is, it seems, some disagreement about what to do next, but the subtleties elude you.
At length, the goliath seems to come to some kind of conclusion from her measurements, and interrupts the other two. There is further discussion, and the three of them turn their heads as one and look directly at you. And that is the point that you know, with more certainty than anything that you have known before in your life, that this was definitely a mistake.
The dragonborn waves you over.
“How close can you get us? Safely, I mean?”
“Safely? We’re a couple of hundred miles beyond ‘safely’ already…”
“You know what I mean. Before the shumarra - the stormwall - before that kills us.”
You shrug, “Two doses of salt, we’ll be more or less okay to go up to a quarter of a mile out, as long as we’re quick. Any closer than that, and it gets deadly pretty quickly.”
This seems to be acceptable to the three of them. The goliath pulls several items from her bag, passes out one to each of her comrades, then one to you - bracelets, in the shape of a coiled serpent. She wraps one around her wrist, and slides the serpent’s fangs into her flesh with a grimace; the others do likewise, and she gestures for you to do the same.
“Is like the salt. Powerful. Protection against the shumarra.”
You’re sceptical, but there’s something about her straightforwardness which convinces you. You wrap the serpent around your wrist, and it bites into you - and as the sting fades, so too does the slight ache and heaviness that you have long associated with being too close to the stormwall. And so, cautiously, you set out towards the howling death at the centre of the desert.
…
Three hundred yards out, more or less, and the goliath looks up from her apparatus, and calls a halt.
“Close enough. We can set the breach here.”
The dragonborn nods, and there is another round of back-and-forth in that old, private language. Again, you sense unease, though no outright disagreement. It strikes you that there is something unsettling about the way the dragonborn stares into the deadly storm-clouds - there is at times a horrible cold intensity about her, a fanaticism of sorts - and when she turns her eyes towards you, for a moment you swear that they seem to be like yawning pits of darkness into which you could so easily fall and never land.
“Stay with us. This will take a few minutes”, she says.
“What exactly are you doing?”
“You’ll see”
You wait, nervously, as the goliath withdraws twelve steel rods from her pack, and eight polished stone orbs. One by one, she twists and manipulates the rods, holding them up at precise angles in front of her, and as she does so, they quiver and lock in place, floating in the air. She slots the orbs into the framework of the floating rods, forming a cube; then with a wand she begins to trace complex patterns across the faces of the cube, muttering something under her breath all the while. Sparks begin to crackle through the lattice, and the scent of burning metal fills your nose; she finishes the process, and yells above the storm: “NOW!”
The cube shakes; a bolt of lightning arcs out from the cube, striking the stormwall; then another, and another, and another, until the air is filled with a constant, crackling boom. Below this cacophony there is another sound, one more felt than heard, as if of a bolt of silk being slowly torn in half, and you glance towards the stormwall.
Three hundred yards ahead of you, a passageway hangs in the air, a thin and trembling tunnel slowly tearing itself open through the raging storm. You cannot help but stare in awe; you stand there dumbstruck until the dragonborn places a hand on your shoulder.
“We’re going through. Come with us. We could do with your expertise a little longer, Lucius.”
“You're out of your mind!”
“Twenty thousand. On top of what we've already agreed.”
You pause. Twenty thousand aura. Enough that you could retire from this. Buy yourself a farm and settle down in Akirion. Twenty thousand. You shouldn't. You know with every fibre of your being that this is a terrible idea. But that kind of money is very hard to say no to.
“Bullshit.”
The dragonborn sighs, and pulls a tiny box from her pack. Far too small for that kind of money, you think. She taps the box, and with a sharp thud, a large chest suddenly appears next to her.
“Take a look”
Curiosity gets the better of you, and you flip the lid open. Inside is more money than you have ever seen in your life. You take a coin, examining it carefully. Gold, larger than a Vaalin aura by about a quarter, stamped with the image of a dragon and some script from a far-off land.
“... Weskin’s tits…”
The dragonborn nods, and taps the smaller box again. The chest vanishes. The coin remains in your hand.
“Get us in and out again, and it's yours. Do we have a deal?”
“Besides”, adds the feline, “haven’t you always wondered what was on the other side? Turn away now, and you’ll never know.”
And, damn it all, in that moment you know that you can’t possibly turn back.
The dragonborn glances back the way you came, and frowns. Your eyes follow hers, and catch sight of a plume of orange smoke rising from the cairns. Far above, there is something moving in the sky - something huge, descending fast. “Damnit, they’ve found us. That was fast. How much longer?”
The goliath glances at the apparatus. “Sixty seconds until it’s safe to enter.”
“Azoth’s blood. We need to move. Come on. Lucius - are you with us?”
“What’s going on ba…” you begin to ask, before a deafening roar from far behind you fills the air.
“I’ll explain when there’s time. Come on!”
The three break into a run. Glancing back, you try to catch a glimpse of what is happening at the cairns - but through the winds you can only see lightning and the shadow of enormous wings. You join them in running.
Barely a hundred yards out, there is a terrible crash as something enormous crashes into the ground nearby, kicking up dust that the stormwall whips up into a blinding, stinging sheet. The four of you reel, drawing weapons as out of the haze stride another dragonborn - not brassy, like the one whose cause you have bound yourself to, but blue of scale - and with him, an orc. Both wear the same serpent bracelets as your companions, their faces betraying a mixture of rage and fear.
“Stop this madness, all of you!” bellows the bluescale, sparks crackling from his jaw as he approaches.
“Stand down, derai’pekeyn” hisses the feline, levelling his sword.
“Mountain. I should have known. Why is it that I always find you in the middle of every damned-fool scheme…”
The brass dragonborn steps forward from the others.
“Please. We are friends here…”
“Friends, Zura, do not typically steal from each other, especially not to do something quite as bloody reckless as this!”
The orc waves the bluescale back and steps forward, her sword still hanging in her scabbard. She speaks softly, but you can still hear her clearly above the wind.
“Zura… it’s been so long. Too long. I know you’re scared, and you’re feeling alone, and that…”
“I’m sorry, Eli. For such a long time I had hoped it would never come to this, but… my mind is clear. I should have done this centuries ago - I was just too scared to act, I guess. But now… I’m not frightened any more. I’m going to take the casket, and I’m going to destroy the Pivot. And one way or another - that’s it. We always knew that this was where the path ended.”
“There’s still time! Zura! Please! I don’t want to fight you!”
The dragonborn sheathes her sword, and you see dark tears fall from her eyes as she replies, her voice little more than a whisper. “I won’t fight you. I swore not to lift a hand against any of you, and I won’t be made an oathbreaker. Not today. Not again. But this has to be done. It’s the only way.”
She turns, and begins walking towards the tunnel. The orc stands there for a moment, then draws her sword and runs the dragonborn through.
You have no idea what you just witnessed, but know that you want no part of it. The goliath raises her wand to retaliate, and falls in a flash of black lightning from the bluescale. You turn your head to see the orc cradling the body of the dying dragonborn; she is screaming, screaming; wordless, agonised, grief-stricken. You look back and the bluescale has drawn his sword, and is locked in combat with the feline, blades clashing amid the howling winds.
Nobody is looking at you. You start to run, preferring the possibility of whatever is on the other side of the storm to the certainty of death here.
Halfway into the tunnel, something slams into you from behind, and you stumble. You glance back and see that the feline has fallen to his knees, and the bluescale is staring at you, power boiling from his fingertips as he chants an incantation. Your skin itches and burns, your muscles hardening, your joints seizing up, you are rooted to the spot. Still chanting, the bluescale steps back to his foe, and with a single blow of his night-dark sword, decapitates the feline. Panic rising within you, you struggle with all your might against the magic that is keeping you bound there - but your struggles are in vain, and as your flesh begins to petrify, all you can do is scream.
With a final gasp the breath in your lungs is gone; your world is dark, and silent beyond your petrified senses. And you are nothing but a statue.
But you are not dead.
…
Time passes. You know not how long. After a certain point, you can no longer tell if what you are witnessing is real, or merely the idle fantasies of the imprisoned mind. Yours is a hell of formless nightmares, punctuated by the horrible recollection that you are trapped in a body of stone, slowly being eroded in the murderous storm.
At long last, an alien thought pushes its way through the strange reverie:
Hear me, lost wanderer. I can ease your suffering, my friend. How long have you stood here, in these flaying winds? I cannot save your life, but I can free you from the hell you are doubtless trapped in, and ensure that you return to the world.
With all your will, you think: yes.
The voice returns: hek’a-mar’a, dwr’a-yok’an, ‘aktu-vek teoz krwr-legesh aotz
By the power of Death, by authority of their sight, I decree you, O statue, to be made flesh once more.
Your eyes are without sight, for the wind has scoured that away long ago. The pain is terrible, but after such a long time of feeling nothing, it is somehow welcome. You fall, but are caught by the one who has freed you, and lowered to the ground. She stays with you until the end; your wounds are beyond her power to heal, but she can at least provide you with comfort in your final moments.
And as your spirit passes from you, she whispers:
“When you are reborn into this land, you shall find it changed, I am sure. You won’t remember any of this. But… I have seen your spirit, and I will remember you. Call out to the Great of Soul, to Kassin, to the gods by whatever names you know them - and I shall hear your prayer. Call out in your hour of greatest need, and I shall ensure that even as He reaches down to answer you, so shall I. I know not what fate awaits you in your next life, and I cannot ask you to swear to me on behalf of the one that you shall become. But I can grant you that you shall not be alone in your next life, as I was never alone in mine. And if all I can do is to keep this chain of initiation alive for one more cycle, then perhaps that will be enough…”