The Way It Always Begins
It begins the same way it always does.
Darkness. No sound. No sight. Only feeling is the cold on the tips of your fingers.
Slowly, you hear a rumbling. Like a high storm across the plains it rattles you. And with the wind and the rain you feel the warmth in your body awaken, as if you soul had been roused awake.
The crash of lightning and thunder nearby rouses you slowly to consciousness.
The smell of burnt clay, and metal, and electricity fills your nostrils. It’s almost enough to make your eyes water.
That’s when your sight comes to you in waves. That’s when you see it:
The Tower.
It stretches high into the air, its apex at the epicenter of a swirling lightning storm above. All along the tower’s walls are runes and glyphs that glow every color imaginable. Beneath your feet is the feeling of gritty sand. All around you, a blasted landscape, gray and devoid of life. And fog. Fog just beyond your vision.
Normally this is where the dream ends. But this time, something different happens.
You see, from the fog, figures appear in silhouettes. One by one they fade into view, as if brought here by the same force that brought you.
You see a young woman with dark hair and white clothes. You see a tiefling man, skin colored the deepest blue. You see a half elf woman with wild eyes in the appearance of a sailor. You see an older man aglow with a deep and unscruitable luminence. You see a scholar dressed in thick robes with stark white hair. You see a half elf, youthful and tall, patches of gray and black tinting bits of his skin.
That’s when you hear a voice. Or rather you think you do, before you wake up.
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