Category Archives: Visions, Dreams & Portents

The Corruption Of Avv Through Utiog

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North. It’s known the way one knows their own pulse, without being told and without being able to say how. How far? As far as the edge of the maps, where words stop and only vague pictures continue?

A hall of black stone, and the whole of it is a working. Rings cut into the floor, one inside the next, the runes in their grooves lit purple. The grooves are wet.

Along the walls, figures hang in iron, and the channels beneath them feed the rings. Demonic figures stand at the edges in the dark and chant.

At the centre Utiog kneels, and every line in that floor ends at her.

The silver circlet is still on her brow and the blue stone in it is still bright. The gown was white once. The irons fit her wrists exactly, and the blood grooves come to them. The stone under her knees is worn into two shallow hollows.

The thing bent over her stands twice the height of a man and has to fold itself to reach her. Six arms. The lower body coiling. An Abyssal Lord. The face too calm for her body.

The Abyssal Lord is not angry. The Abyssal Lord works Utiog the way a man works a hide: not in temper, not in haste, simply without stopping.

One of the arms comes down. Utiog does not brace. When the Abyssal Lord lifts her fist away Utiog’s head is sagging more and with more blood.

The chanting climbs until the words run together. Then all of it stops at once, and the silence is worse than the sound was.

Purple tendrils come up out of the grooves and climb the walls.

Two of the arms take Utiog’s shoulders. Two hold her hips. The last two set themselves against her ribcage and open her the way you open a shutter.

What comes out of her is light-blue light.

Utiog fights this. Her body suddenly full of a vigor for fighting, but she’s also too weak from all the torture.

The Abyssal Lord goes in headfirst, slowly. One arm follows. Then another. The coil of it narrows and narrows and feeds in behind the Abyssal Lord, and Utiog’s ribs stand open the whole while, and the blue thins.

And behind all of it, faint, the way a thing is seen through water: a far greater god, opening in the same way, taking the same purple, and not resisting at all.

The last of the coil goes in. Her ribs close.

The purple goes out of the walls, the grooves and the runes, all at once, inward.

Utiog lifts her head. The stone on her brow is now red.

The thing looking out Utiog’s eyes gazes, knowing she’s being watched. She smiles. “My servant is coming for you.”

The Black Iron Crown That Binds

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As the group is leaving the mountain lion cave they shared with Sava Alexis is thinking out loud.

“I’ve been thinking more about ‘the crown that binds'”.

“Given what you’ve said about your past, Carm, it seemed reasonable that it could have been Ædelfred’s. But there are a few other crowns at play.”

“Tarkus Vell took his orders from a shadow with a broken crown sitting over its head. I’d still wager that was Bandesingh. And the bronze standard of those ice soldiers: the eye with eight points rising out of it. It reminded us of a crown, and it was carried by the orcs at Nodden-Torr.”

“But then there’s the third image. The image of a crown. A crown of black iron, hanging above an empty skull. And the skull is somewhere in this world. But there is a half formed thing standing in the void watching the crown and the ritual around it.”

“As a little aside, if Shasharak has a skull in this world, could it be something like Zrithrak’s skull or the skulls in the Drayek crypt? Is this a connection?” Alexis moves back to his talk of crowns.

“The three ‘crowns’ are not worn. Two of them hang in the air. The third rises out of an eye.”

“And then there’s the iron connection. The red iron shipments from Tarkus Vell, presumably north to Frostbite Pass. The black iron for the crown over the skull. The iron crown worn by Utiog. And then there’s the verse” he closes his eyes to recall it “Eager are princes who feed him with ore, Edged in red iron and promise of war.” Keeping his eyes closed he continues “and there’s the directive to Find the one who feeds him iron and blood.”

He opens his eyes and adjusts his hat.

“Is red iron just iron that’s been fed blood?”

Alexis shrugs and keeps moving with the group.

Ca’armine’s Vision of Time and Thorns

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[A few days before the ritual to cleanse the crystal ball and the raising of the ironwood grove, on the slopes of Mount Llanos:]

The first hours are unpleasant. Ca’armine vomits until there’s nothing left in his stomach. His hands shake. The stars smear into long silver tracks wherever he moves his head. Eventually he lies flat against the earth and realizes that he can feel it breathing. Not metaphorically — the ground rises beneath his back. Falls, rises again. And then he hears footsteps.

Raiden walks across the sky. The stars begin moving. Constellations stretch into the outline of an enormous figure walking across the heavens. Bow across his back, sword at his side, cloak flowing behind him. Every step takes centuries. Where his foot falls, Ca’armine sees civilizations appear beneath it — the Ederos Empire, its destruction. Ilceros. Shasharak. The desperate migrations through the Red Waste. The First Gate. Sutheron reclaimed. Ægir founded. Generations are born and die between Raiden’s footsteps.

Then Ca’armine hears: “You keep asking where you belong.” Another celestial footstep. “You belong where your feet are.”

Ca’armine suddenly understands something fundamental. This may not be the world of his birth. Time itself may have carried him into something different — but duty does not depend upon chronology.

Raiden says: “Do not worship yesterday so fiercely that you abandon today.”

A tree grows out of Ca’armine’s chest. He feels its roots passing harmlessly through his ribs and sinking into the earth. Its trunk becomes enormous. Raiden stands beside it. With one fingernail, he opens the bark. Inside are thousands of growth rings — but Ca’armine doesn’t really see them. He enters them. One ring shows his childhood. Another, his years among the Raidensblud. Another shows events he hasn’t experienced. Another shows him ancient and gray.

Then Raiden closes the bark. “Mortals think time is the road.” He puts his palm against the tree. “It is the tree.”

Then something painful happens. Ca’armine sees himself standing naked beneath the stars. There is a black thorn embedded beneath his ribs. Raiden tells him: “Pull it out.” Ca’armine does, and it hurts enormously. Blood pours from the wound — but underneath it is another thorn. He removes that one, then another, then dozens. Each carries a voice. Fear. Hatred. Shame.

Finally he pulls out one enormous thorn, and recognizes the voice within it: the goddess Avv. The thorn whispers: “I was invited.”

Raiden kneels beside Ca’armine. “Evil enters many doors. Sometimes force, sometimes despair, sometimes an invitation offered by someone who believed they were doing good.” Raiden takes one of the discarded thorns. “Learn the difference.”

Near dawn, the visions become gentler. Ca’armine sees a partridge. It looks at him. He looks at it. The partridge says, “You’re hungry.” Ca’armine replies that he is. “Unfortunate for me.” Then the bird runs away. This is the last supernatural vision he remembers clearly.

Later that day, while hunting, a group of partridges breaks from the bush. Ca’armine smiles ruefully. One of those partridges looks just like the one he talked to while enjoying those mushrooms. He lets them run off unmolested, but mutters happily: “You are off the menu today, little one — but just for today.”

Dream Web From The Heights

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The group is camped on the platform three hundred feet up. The inscription “they never came” is close-by. Rask has filled Alexis in on the watch. When he’s done, Alexis is quiet for a moment.

“I had a dream.”

He keeps his voice low.

“A thorough darkness. Then a red web in front of me. One thread vibrating, glowing slightly. Then I’m moving down it; following it. At the end of it, mist which I passed through. Couldn’t see anything, but I could feel stone all around. And weight above. A lot of it.”

“The mist thinned but never lifted. Utiog was there first. Beautiful, but badly wounded, and crowned in iron. She was moving slowly, haltingly, like every movement is painful.” He pauses. “Then another woman set against her. Middle-aged. A majestic queen, cloaked in smoke, so I never got her face. She was bound to her throne, and whatever was binding her was coming off Utiog. And she was fighting it. Fighting it hard.”

Alexis looks down and notices he has his holy symbol of Raiden in his hands.

“And above both of them, the Crone. Empty eye sockets with constellations in them. She towered over the whole scene. She was speaking to someone, but as a spectator I don’t know what she said.”

“When I woke up the ring and the tear are pulsing, seemingly in the same rhythm.” He glances up. “And the crone was there. Closer than in the dream. Then she faded. But she didn’t get any further away.”

He looks back at Rask.

“I’ll tell Carm when he’s up.”

He starts getting ready for his watch.

The Lament of the Twice-Blooded King

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Sundered was he in the womb of disdain,
Seed of two hatreds, of iron and rain;
Split was his cradle ’twixt tusk and fair ear,
Child of no hearth-fire, sworn unto fear.

High did he climb by the ladder of slain,
Hewn from the marrow of scholar and thane;
Hallowed the bones that he set for his stair,
Hungering upward through incense and prayer.

Ash fell as snow when the Second Sun broke,
Altars lay silent, and empires lay smoke;
All of the banners were blackened with flame,
All of the chronicles swallowed his name.

Shadow-crowned warlord, unblessed yet adored,
Seeker of godhood by blade and by word;
Silent he stood where the firmament tore,
Swearing the heavens would bar him no more.

Half-dead, half-living, in memory chained,
Held in the rot where old ages are stained;
Hushed is his breathing, yet restless his will,
Hunger unquenched in the hollows of still.

Ever he drinketh of mortal desire,
Envy and pride are the oil of his fire,
Eager are princes who feed him with ore,
Edged in red iron and promise of war.

Red are the sands where his heralds conspire,
Rivers of steel for the dark of his pyre;
Ruin is bartered in markets of flame,
Raised are the armies that march in his name.

** Alexis orates this two mornings after his dream of Raiden

Guided by Raiden

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Alexis dreams he stood upon a vast grassland beneath a gray morning sky.The grass reached nearly to his knees and rolled away in every direction, untouched by road or wall. Far away stood the dark line of a forest. Beyond it rose mountains crowned with snow. There was no temple. No throne. No choir. Only wind.

Then Alexis noticed a man walking toward him through the grass. He was tall and weathered, dressed not as a god but as an old warrior returning from a long campaign. His cloak was patched. His boots were muddy. An ancient sword hung at his side, and across his shoulders he carried a bow. His face seemed softened by humility. His eyes were tired. But kind. Alexis knew him immediately. Raiden.

Raiden stopped beside him and looked toward the mountains. For a long while, the god said nothing. Finally… “Men build walls when they are frightened.”

Raiden picked a blade of grass and rolled it between his fingers. “Then they build higher walls because the first did not make them less afraid.” He looked toward Alexis. “Shasharak built no wall of stone.”

The wind strengthened. The grassland vanished.

Alexis saw an ancient city beneath a burning sky. Armies marched beneath banners he did not recognize. Orcs, goblins, elves, humans, and creatures stranger still fought among shattered towers. Standing above them was a figure Alexis could never see clearly. Tall. Thin. Neither elf nor orc. Both elf and orc. Every time Alexis tried to see his face, smoke crossed the dream.

Raiden spoke beside him. “He believed the world had failed because those entrusted with its protection were too weak to command it.”

The scene changed. Shasharak stood upon a mountain surrounded by bodies. Above him burned lights like stars. The Gods. Shasharak reached toward them. And the heavens recoiled.

Raiden said: “He mistook obedience for unity.”

The vision changed again. Now Alexis saw Shasharak falling. But his shadow did not fall with him. It remained standing. Waiting. The centuries passed around that shadow. Kingdoms rose. Kingdoms disappeared. Forests grew where cities had stood. Still the shadow waited. Then someone approached it. A man carrying the symbol of a black and red hand. Bandesingh. The shadow turned toward him.

Raiden’s voice became grim. “Some enemies need not survive in flesh. Hatred can preserve a man longer than blood.”

Alexis asks “Is Shasharak returning?”

Raiden does not answer. Instead he draws his sword and drives it into the earth. The ground splits. Deep beneath it Alexis sees something crimson glowing in darkness. The Tear of Avv.

Raiden looks directly at him. “The old powers are moving again. Some will tell you that power must be destroyed. Others will tell you that it must be possessed. Beware both.”

Then Raiden steps closer. “You  hold something kings would murder nations to possess. Do not ask whether you are strong enough to wield it.” His expression becomes severe. “Ask whether you are strong enough to surrender it.”

Then the wind rises. Raiden disappears.

But his sword remains buried in the earth. Wrapped around its blade is a single strand of crimson thread.

Alexis awakens.

To Be Informed Is To Be Forearmed

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The island on the water level. The others sleep between the two palm trees. Alexis takes the far one.

He told them at the fire what his working was for. The Tear is close and he wants the guidance of the Inner Watch on the tear and the taint. Rask seemed to like the idea.

The carving takes most of the night. He scrapes the sand down to the wet layer and cuts it with the butt of his whip, a section at a time, sitting back to look along the line and then leaning in again.

What it comes out as, for anyone who woke and looked: a wall, drawn as a closed ring around the foot of the tree. Set into the inside of the wall, facing in, a single open eye.

Then he sits back on his heels and lets his eyes go, and for a long while nothing happens at all.

The sand inside the ring starts glowing faintly, evenly. The dim light fades and comes back. Haze comes off the water somewhere in there and settles at knee height around Alexis and his glowing working.

“It answers in the voice you expect,” Alexis mutters to himself.

“The Second Sun was broken and it was called progress as the ruins of what was wrought was stepped on.”

Later.

“The ancients keep it in in rings nobody wears.”

The light under the sand goes almost out, and returns.

“There are shadows around it, it doesn’t throw.”

“The ladder of the gods was climbed with mortal bones and entry was denied, but hubris never ends.”

“It seeks out its others. Its others are itself.”

A long time after that, quieter.

“You will be asked to set it down. Once by a one who wants it. Once by a one who loves you.”

“The one is supported by the two.”

“Find the one who feeds him iron and blood… the one who believes he can control him”

His hands are flat on the sand.

“It remembers.”

The haze is gone by the time he comes back to himself, and the sand has stopped giving light. His knees have locked. Alexis works the feeling into them, then goes around the ring on his hands and knees, putting the sand back in place.

“Well,” he says. “That’s more than I had.”

From fire through water to ice

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While we wait to climb the stairs again and face the wrath of the fire…

Red sits and spreads a few of his items in front of him.

He sets the wooden bowl in his lap.

He sprinkles a bit of silver dust into the bowl.

He lets out a few drops of water into the bowls.

He places the blue stone he has on top of the silver dust.

He take out the lens of his bulls eye lantern and sets into the bowl on top the blue stone.

He holds a clear crystal at arm length above the bowl.

Long he spends just sitting in that position. Holding open in his mind and how he is able summon a flame.

Long he concentrates on the effects of water.

Long he concentrates on how he is able to flow between heat and cold.

Long he concentrates on the effects of fire.

Long he breathes.

Long his takes his mind back in time to the crystal with the man frozen. The moment when he touched the crystal and was transported into cold.

Long he takes mind mind back to the cold from the wolf that shielded them from the danger of the Orcs.

Long he dwells on the true distance between flame and ice.

Slowly he evokes and slowly he attempts to bring forth a cold ‘flame’ from within.

Gustav’s Dream

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Gustav falls asleep under the open sky. No chanting. No kneeling. Just a ranger’s rest beneath the stars and the trees. The forest does not seem to darken this night. It grows… attentive.

Gus opens his eyes. He is standing in a clearing. Everything is too green. Too vibrant. The air smells of pine sap and fresh rain but Gus does not trust this. He does not trust most magic and this smells mostly of magic. A massive oak tree suddenly stands before him, ancient and knotted. Its bark creaks.

A low voice emerges from the trunk…“Well, this is improper.” Gus blinks. The oak shifts uncomfortably. “We’re not supposed to talk.” From somewhere above, a crow caws. Then in a scratchy voice…“Definitely not supposed to talk.” Gus rubs his eyes. He sighs. More magic. And talking magic is always the worst. “I’m dreaming.” Gus says feeling vexed that this would be the dream he landed in. Surely he could have imagined he was at a nice wilderness inn with a flagon of ale and a bowl of hot…

The crow hops down to a branch just above him, interrupting Gus’s thoughts. “Obviously.” it says. The oak sighs deeply, sounding almost as vexed as Gus…“Very much dreaming.” Gus folds his arms and says indignitaly…“Trees don’t talk. At least not to me. Go bother Red. He likes talking to you.” The oak pauses. “Correct. We do not talk.” The crow nods. “Highly irregular.”

A moment of blessed silence follows. It is not long enough for Gus.

The crow tilts its head. “Do you want us to stop?” Gus hesitates feeling guilty that he does in fact want them to stop..“…maybe…uh yes!” The oak chuckles, bark splitting softly. Suddenly the forest closes in. The trees around him begin murmuring…a low, windlike conversation. Not words exactly. But understanding. Like a murmur of a friendly crowd, cheering Gus on. It is nearly unbearable for Gus.

The crow flutters down and lands on Gus’s shoulder. It is annoyingly familiar. “You are worried,” it says plainly. Gus shrugs. “There’s a storm coming.” it says. The oak hums..“There is always a storm coming.” The crow adds…“You don’t fear it.” Gus looks toward the horizon, and yes, now because they had to mention it in your dream he see dark clouds gathering beyond distant hills. Typical bad luck that comes from unnatural talking things that put storms in his dreams. “No. Just no. To all of it. No to the storm, no to you both talking, and no, of course I am not scared of a storm.” “You fear for them.” the oak and the crow say together. The clearing shifts.Gus sees faint silhouettes…his friends…Alexis studying items for the hidden secret meanings he is so sure exists, Red studying his scrolls endlessly as if the meaning of everything was hidden in the pen strokes on the page, Rask sharpening his blades to precision, and Ca’armine kneeling in prayer.

The crow leans closer. “You are not afraid to die.” The oak rumbles warmly. “You are afraid they might.” Gus swallows. He hates it when the talking things are right.

The forest quiets. The crow hops down. “Prove to yourself it’s a dream.” Gus squints.“…What?” The oak creaks. “Ask for something.” The crow smirks in a very crow-like way. “Something small.” Gus hesitates. He does not like these games. Even if he is asleep he doubts he is getting much rest with all this noise in his head. “…An empty chair.” Gus finally says. Instantly, behind him a wooden chair appears. Perfectly worn. Sturdy. Familiar. He slowly turns, an idea forming in his head…“…A small flagon of ale.” A cool weight appears in his hand. He lifts it. It smells exactly right. “…And a bowl… of hot boiled turnips.” The crow freezes.“…Turnips?” The oak groans. “How did you know he was thinking of that?” The crow fluffs its feathers indignantly. “I did not know about the turnips.” it caws indignantly. A wooden bowl appears on a stump beside the chair. Steam rises from the turnips. Gus stares.“huh…This isn’t real.” The oak responds gently…“No.” The crow nods. “But what it means is.”

The clearing opens beyond Gus as he sits down on the comfortable chair. The forest spreads out untouched, endless, green, alive. No rot. No undead. No red iron. No Dark Hand. No cities! Just wilderness waiting to be walked. Now if Gus could just remember to ask the talking things to shut up this could turn into a rather pleasant dream. The dream spirits really should have led with this. Still, far on the horizon is that terrible looking storm. The talking things said Gus was not afraid of the storm which is true, but it sounded like his friends might be in trouble. That would not be good. They may get wet but he will make sure they stay safe. He always does.

The crow looks toward the horizon. “You will not stop the storm.” The oak adds…“But storms pass.” The crow leans in annoyingly closer. “And trees remain.” The oak speaks one final time…“You are not meant to be the lightning.You are meant to be the roots.”

The chair creaks softly beneath Gus.The ale tastes perfect. The turnips are, regrettably, excellent. The crow sighs contentedly on Gus’s shoulder. Gus is slightly less annoyed now that they have stopped talking again.

“When the shadows in the storm come,” the crow says quietly, “Stand between them and your friends.” The oak hums agreement. “That is enough.” the crow says. The clearing suddenly begins to fade. A half eaten turnip disappears from Gus’s hand before he can take another bite and he drops to the ground as the chair vanishes. Typical. Must be fey nearby. He will need to warn the others when he wakes up. Right before the dream ends the crow speaks once more, even as Gus finds himself wishing that it was the first thing to disappear. “Next time ask for stew.” it caws.

Gus opens his eyes and is so happy to find that his Crow has not in fact learned to talk like a human. The trees are back to being quiet as well, and Gus hopes they have learned their lesson and stay that way. It really is better for everyone and no one has the patience to listen to a tree. Gus is so happy that he isn’t hearing voices from things that are not supposed to speak that he almost forgets about his dream. Almost.