Guided by Raiden

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

Raiden said: “He mistook obedience for unity.”

The vision changed again. Now Alexis saw Shasherak 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 Shasherak 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.

A Dream Outside the Monastery

Alexis dreams of being in a vast, crumbling library beneath the earth. The shelves stretch into darkness filled with books bound in skin and ash. In the silence, a voice whispers from a pulsing tone with a crackled black cover. He reads it. The runes speak out that this is the truth of the crone. Alexis opens it only to find his own handwriting, cataloging secrets yet not yet learned. As he reads it, the ink bleeds from the page and forms the face of Avv. But her features seem to be rotting in front of him. Something is wrong. Alexis gets the feeling that he has abandoned something. The voice of the crone distorts. Bandages begin wrapping around Alexis’ face, blinding him. He now feels like he’s being dragged through the aisles by spectral librarians, chanting, “She’s corrupted and so are you.”

Alexis awakes with dried blood on his nose and a sentence in his mind “Beware the king, his tomb is empty, for he had made his pact.”

With Horn And Canyon Can a Sending Make?

It’s the day after their second night watching Tarkus Vell’s warehouse. The camp sits on the ragged edge of Ghanil, tents pitched close but without order. To the west, the Westlands stretch out under a clear sky.

Ethelred keeps his watch, cloth in hand, working over the wooden spyglass. The fittings look sturdier than when they first bought it, the grain smoother, edges tighter, as though time and use had only sharpened it.

Alexis stirs, props himself up, voice low.
“Evening, Red.”

“Dreams again,” Alexis says. “Running corridors that turned back on themselves. Always ending where I began. A woman’s pleading voice all the while.”

“Red, I’ve been excited for you to finish the scrolls and take your new craft to the next level…” his voice falters, just for a breath, as if there’s more he wants to say — something personal. He pushes on. “…but I need you in the here-and-now too. So much I want to say to so many people.”

He starts counting on his fingers.
“About Zrithrak. The howling winds. The undead on the edge of Ghanil. The Spider of Ilceros. And more.”

He ticks them off the way Ethelred does his inventory: precise.

“We need a way to get word out. A way to send messages over distances. I don’t know when we’ll see another proper town.”

A breath. Then another matter.
“And there’s Verisimus, always watching through his pool. Gustav managed to blunt it for a while, but…” Alexis shrugs “We need cover from Verisimus. Something that moves with us.”

Alexis quietly pushes out of his bedroll. The red jasper at his neck catches the daylight, burning faintly.