Season of Dreams: Prelude

[Shobits]

The boy slowly crept up the very familiar stairs. He had been to this room before many times, the Broken Dagger had been a second home to the young runaway for over a year. N`vek reached forwards and turned the knob. Within was a space too large to have been a room in an inn. What lay beyond that door was the interior of a house. his house and not the one he'd been left by Miss Renea. Home. All thoughts of why he had run away those few years ago left the cursed boy's mind. He was back home and it was just as he remembered it. The smell of dinner, the call of shore birds outside. Everyone was happy and together seated at the dinner table.

There were his parents.

There was his older brother, Adder.

There was him, Kevan. A human boy, no - a human young man. A Kevan that had never run into that witch.

It was a perfectly happy family, even Adder didn't have any of those radical changes he'd altered his body with.

Was.


They spotted him. His own mother shrieked and fainted at the sight of him. Father, Adder, and Kevan were on their feet in an instant, and they were armed. His father had a spear, his brother a sickle, and Kevan... Kevan had a crossbow. Adder came at him with the sickle and raked the weapon forwards. N`vek was minus a tentacle. Two tentacles. A grievous wound down one arm. The squiddling saw red and the remaining tentacles shot out and coiled around Adder's legs. His brother tripped and dropped the sickle as the toothy lined suckers dug into his flesh and gripped tighter and tighter. N`vek could taste the blood now... and it fueled him into a frenzy.

The spear was thrown, without even a thought, N`vek raised his brother up as a meat shield. One down.

The very same spear was then ripped from Adder's body and thrown back at Father. Two down.

Kevan fumbled with his bow, horror made the boy's fingers clumsy. An arrow fired. And shot clear through N`vek's left shoulder. The squid screamed in pain, an unearthly cry filled with a hair-raising hiss that a giant's teapot must make. The crossbow was slapped out of Kevan's hands and the squid lunged. Tentacles sought to pull limbs out of sockets, a sharp beaklike mouth reached for the boy's delicate throat.

In that moment he was Kevan and he could only stare as the Squid won.

[Urukhin]

Heart hammering in his chest, Murrukh pushes at the door that promises so much; timber shifts slightly beneath his hand, but resists; the half-orc frowns, presses more firmly against the unvarnished boards, shoves, and yet the portal yields no further. Frustration draws a low snarl from his throat, and the brute backs up a couple of steps; a deep breath, fists clenching at his sides, and in the moment after he stamps forward, lifts a booted foot for the latch --

-- the valves of oak and bronze finally burst open, the brute bellowing in triumph as he strides forward into the chamber of intricately-worked stone, all clean geometries and intricate knotwork, details picked out with inlays of gold and bronze and precious gems; the air is chill and bitter upon his tongue, thick with the taste of blood and smoke. The wall on the far side opens to the sky and a rugged horizon, In the middle of the chamber, beneath the carven gazes of his dwarven ancestors, the lord of Barak Tor stands alone. Battle-fury sings in Murrukh's veins as he roars his challenge, lifting his heavy blade to charge at his final foe - he is a warrior, a warlord, clad in chitinous plate and heavy fur, indomitable, invincible, the wrath of centuries at last risen up against the usurper.

They meet in a whirlwind of steel, the Dwarflord swinging an axe that hums with the runesmith's art, the halfbreed wielding a two-handed sword that smokes with the slaughter of the dwarf's kin. The battle is furious, desperate, and yet the master of the hold is driven back towards the open wall, step by bitter step; at last - wearied, weakened, gilded armour rent and hewn by a dozen thunderous blows - the Dwarflord falls to pool his lifeblood upon the polished floor.

Murrukh stoops, seizes the fallen lord by collar and girdle, heaves the corpse up over his head and carries it to the stone balustrade; he roars in exultation, and his cry is echoed by the warriors in the valley below; with a heave he pitches the last Dwarflord's carcass over the balustrade, grinning savagely as it tumbles to break upon the granite steps far below.

Beyond and to the hazy horizon the Red Hills are a battlefield; armies march and clash, the scattered orcish tribes united beneath a single banner, and plumes of smoke rise from neighbouring hilltops as the dwarfholds burn.

[Eiceblade]

Eice stands there looking through the windows of a tavern from long ago. His brothers in arms sit at a table with those he thought he loved and loved him. Adrian Cross, Stiletto Kain, Chance Cross, Nikita LaSal, Nestria Armgo, Sesmia Blackwing, and most beloved of all...little Kuroi DuVay.


A smile lights up his face in remembrance of their laughter and their great memories of times spent together, before he became what he is today. His eyes scan the faces of those in the room, warriors all holding mugs of ale with joyful victory song. His heart beats faster and he wants to rush to them and be with them...he wants to hold Kuroi and tell her she's alright and still his baby girl.


As he tries to move....etherial arms and hands grab him and hold him in place...other hands hold his head in place and his eyes open and force him to watch...one by one the members at the table die...most violently...as they had in life. Those around the room die in groups or solo....last to die was Kuroi...screaming for Eice to save her. The only one left was Stiletto, looking out the window at him.

"Welcome to your own personal hell....you can't join them until your vengeance is sated...be a good weapon and do as you were made" Stiletto said softly with a smile.

Eice was thrown back to darkness...forced to relive the deaths of those he's lost in the centuries of his existance...each scar on his body a reminder to stay the course so they could be set free...if only he could find the last five...five of seven...his hell is perfect recall of their passing.

Adrian was a brother...Nikita a lover...Kuroi an adopted daughter, Chance an apprentice, Sesmia was the first betrayal of his heart...Nestria the last. He wasn't strong enough to save them...he will be strong enough to bring them back if he can kill

Stiletto could do the magic...if Eice could do this task...


He wakes to the fading screams of the past dead...he locks his emotions and stands...he has work to do.

[Treadwell]

There is Treadwell on his couch asleep. . . .

A familiar voice gently tugs Aloisius Treadwell awake: soft, elderly. An accompanying squeezes pudgy fingers into heavy arm.

"M'lord? You wanted a nap after lunch, but I did not believe you meant here, of all places."

Fingers take hand, warm and flushed, setting it on the arm of--

"Your chair, m'lord. Do recall you paid for a side doorway and a slight slope of a ramp up to the floor so you could slip in and out of here most easily. Now, if only you might replace this battered, old couch."

Your chair, m'lord. Wet eyes, tiny and blue, settle blearily on the wheelchair in question. He's had one since, oh, at least 203, and that was some time ago, when he first came here. This is his second, a gift. Splendid craftsmanship, this one, a gift of steel and inlaid gold and ample cushions, from Chedwry on his appointment to Lord Consul, Regent of Myrken Wood, two. . . no, three, years past. Closer to three than to two, at least. A month distant makes little difference. "Lord Steward," he'd been told by the artisan behind it on his birthday, "Beg your pardon. Lord Consul, now, is it? That cane simply will not do for one of your age. You need more reliable assistance in traveling about, especially if you aim to return to Razasan yearly."

No. This is wrong. I do not dream, yet--Myrken? The Dagger? Gregory, with a new chair, and mem'ries of an appointment and coronation and title and robe? A mace of office rests by my hip, and--Tubbius' blessed mercies--my poor knee, my old leg injury, swollen even more!

A sharp wheeze of breath prompts a careful pat-pat to the back from his butler and manservant, Gregory.

"M'lord?"

I do not dream.

Simple recognition of a simple fact: ever since his remembrance of his proper state, ever since shortly after the arrival of the Tubbians ages ago in 207, Aloisius Treadwell has not had what most might think a proper dream. His nights have been a familiar return to a form ages older and larger than even this elderly, mortal ball.

I do not dream. The Glutton will have what the Glutton wills.

"M'lord?" Sharper this time, more persistent--sharp enough to bring Aloisius from his own revelries and thoughts, his truths, into this golden lie.

Golden. The phrase Myrken the Golden immediately comes to mind as the proper name for this place, one established. . . when was it? Ages ago, now, it seems.

"Gregory?"

"Your chair, m'lord. Your lady Alice wishes to see you at home before supper this evening, and we've a bit of a way to go yet."

"My toy store, Gregory. I have to stop off and--"

"It goes well without you for one day, m'lord. Arthur and Harold are doing quite well running it daily."

Apprentices. Arthur: young man, blond, blue eyes, fair skin, bothersome. Wants to do things his way. Forgets who pays him every week. Harold: a little older, five-and-thirty, I think, to Arthur's ten-and-nine, a proper stomach to him, ginger. He's always reminded me of Babette, queerly enough.

"I don't trust Arthur. His stitching's poor, mmph. I have to do the lot of it a second time when he's not looking."

"M'lord, you won't be doing it this afternoon. Your Alice wishes to see her husband more than just the once or twice a week you're not busy at the meetinghouse. Spare a moment for her and your children? They're all growing older fast--"

A pause to punctuate with a firm jab of finger into breast.

"And so are you, m'lord."

"Hmph."

"Well, m'lord? The chair?"

The ordeal, more like it. Always dreadful, now, moving from this couch to that seat. Oh, by my divine, bloated gut! My knees!

"Up! Up! Slow and easy, m'lord! Breathe gently, gen-n-ntly. . . . Do remember what Doctor Jacobson's told you for years, now."

And down. Blessed, merciful heavens, these cushions, this seat, splendid work, splendid work.

"The guards, Greg'ry, mmph."

"All four await at the coach, outside, m'lord, ready to walk at the corners as always. Oop! Your mace, m'lord?"

A silver scepter, topped in emerald, weighty and massy in aged hands with enfeebled grip.

How much more of this mortal frame 'fore I return completely home?

"The door, Gregory. Open it. Out we go, mmph mmph, and on to home."