[b]10th of Sun’s Height
Shornhelm, Greater High Rock
Everard III[/b]

Everard had found sleep easily enough. In such tense moments, sleep usually was the last thing to come to come to him. He was to be king by force, to take back what was his by blood and steel. For now though, he was to sleep, and in a bed, no less. For the first time, he felt silk sheets wrap him in comfort’s cloak, the cushion of the bed forming around him and that was the last memory he had before he awoke seemingly seconds later. Where one would open their eyes to the daylight streaming in from windows, the morning chill making the curtains dance hauntingly, his sight begat only darkness in its gaze. The search for any light was hopeless, as it seemed the darkness surrounded him, almost was him. The darkness enveloped him more thoroughly than his skin, which he felt none, nor legs or arms to move or a head to turn.

Slowly though, these things came back to him. His eyes first, then body and hands and fingers which he held in front of his face as if not trusting his hands to be real. He looked down to see himself stark naked. No wind blew though, it was still all around and he felt unnerved. This was not like any dream or nightmare he had ever experienced. He felt as if this was a real place and he felt as any other day. Under his naked feet though, the floor seemed to be liquid, blood upon a few moments of inspection. A sea of blood. The blood gave way to a slick, black walkway. [i]Ebony[/i], he thought.

After which, his thoughts almost seemed to be hijacked, a voice inside his own head spoke in a woman’s voice, deep as it was and it sent chills down his spine, “Walk.”

And he did. His first few steps were slow, but he felt pushed and so his steps came more frequent. He looked around himself and noticed the same darkness as when he arrived in this place. From thin air, appearing like smoke before taking a form, came the face of his father. The voice spoke again, “This is the man who fathered you. A warrior on a throne of whalebone, the great beast speared by his kinsman long ago.”

The face exploded into smoke before reforming into the face of Ambrose Mackin, “This is the man who slew him, Amber-Skin, King of Pirates. Warlord of common blood,” the voice said, “Amber-Skin was born in mud and filth and he rose to be a leader of men, to be Captain and then King. The will to power is the coal that burns in men’s hearts. Those who have no will do not earn my favor, and those that have more will than their kin earn my favor two-fold.”

“Why do you bring me here, Dream-Witch?” Everard spoke angrily, to which his head jerked aside and the pain of a slap simmered on his cheek.

“The weak have no right to demand the strong. Tell me, who had more will- your father with all of his army and a true claim to the Ivory Throne or the Reachman?” The voice spoke again.

“My father. He left his enemies in his wake-”

“All his enemies but one,” The voice interrupted and Everard’s voice found itself absent, “Listen, mortal, though the shit of weakness festers in your ears; I ask, who is Crowned and who is dead?”

Once again, his voice was returned to him, “My father is dead, Ambrose rules now.”

“And why is it that you want the throne, Breton bastard?” Her words heated him and his hands hungered for a blade and a throat with which to cut.

His hands convulsed and he felt the tiny bones in his hands shifting painfully, a shrill cry came from him as he fell to his knees, “An appropriate position for the weak,” She said, “Answer.” 

“Justice.” He said, looking up and rubbing his hands as the pain faded, his eyes scanning for the witch who had trapped him here.

His throat and tongue began to burn and he tasted blood, “Because I am a bastard!” And the pain stopped as sudden as it came.

“Your answers grow truthful. They are close to the truth, but close can be the difference between cutting a throat and finding only air. Answer again.”

“Because others said I could not have it.” He gasped, struggling to rise, fists clenched.

“And you would live such that the words of others push you this way and that like a boat at sea.” It was not a question, “Men are apt to be swallowed by the waves sooner or later. A weakling you are, should you stay in this mindset. I leave you tonight to meditate and I will visit again. Make your answers true, or I will be less than pleased.”

Everard awoke in the guest chambers of Duke Egan’s walled fortress-city. He came to with a gasp, his hands finding the dagger beneath his pillow as his eyes looked to every corner for the witch who had invaded his dreams. He did not like being made the weakling, and such an incursion on his very dreams was an affront of the highest kind. He sighed, pushing old anger back down. His feet found the floor and he stood to dress himself for the day to come. He remembered the witch’s words, [i]“You would live such that the words of others push you this way and that like a boat at sea. Men are apt to be swallowed by the waves sooner or later.”[/i]

He looked at his hands, remembering the pain and the shifting and grating of bone under his skin. He closed and opened a fist to test his hands and found nothing wrong. Letting his hands return to his side, he looked out of his bedroom window and out of the walls beyond his own. The words returned to his lips again in a whisper, “Who is crowned and who is dead?”

A seed of a question that bore another as he thought for a moment, and he felt a feeling of epiphany hold him, “Why is one crowned and one dead?”

He sat thinking for a few moments before he shook his head. His mind would not be polluted by the ramblings of a Dream-Witch, not while he held it. He continued to dress himself and stood, not knowing what to do with himself. A strange pull took him to the window and he looked out into the night sky. Stars, the void, but the moon. The moon bled.

[b]12th of Sun’s Height, Night
Roads around Grand Duchy of Northpoint, Greater High Rock
Watch Sergeant Baelion[/b]

Baelion had given the order for his troop to dig in for the night. None of the men had nighteye spells or potions handy and torches and lanterns were apt to get them spotted. They were in the business of killing brigands, not shooing them away. Even so, the dark night was pushed back by a few torches milling about the camp. Their awareness was low but being so close to Camlorn on the edges of the Normar wastes meant that there were a scarce number of criminals that could pose a threat. Meeting a patrol from Camlorn was a threat in itself though. Baelion knew that if there were any patrols nearby they’d most likely have heard of the cease fire between the Northern States in light of some important something the Grand-Duke and a few others disappeared for and even if they didn’t they’d be settling down just like him and his men.

Two campfires had been made in the camp and the men huddled themselves around the pair of flames. One could always tell the veteran from the newblood by two things, how much they talked about killing, how shiny their armor was and never spending time around a campfire at night if bandits or other nasties were a threat. One such man stood at the edge of the camp, back to a large boulder. Even if he hadn’t moved a muscle, Baelion knew he had heard him coming.

“Listening for wings, Engle?” The giant-bats, the Echkin, were particularly active at night, crawling from their holes in the mountains to wreak havoc on whatever they could find. They were far enough away from the mountains to not have to worry about it.

“Can’t sleep, Bael.” He said, keeping his watch as he talked.

Baelion knew Engle was as tough a soldier as one could hope to have in their troop but he’d never known Engle to skip sleep. He’d never run the chance of being caught tired the next day if his axe was needed. The Sergeant rested his back against the boulder, shoulder-to-shoulder with the gray-templed soldier, “Something got you up?”

“Dreams. Bad ones. No good is to come of the future.” Something must have had to spook him if he was speaking like this. Baelion had never known Engle to be superstitious.

“Just dreams-”

“Vaermina. I think it’s from Vaermina,” He interrupted, “I wouldn’t put much stock into dreams if I didn’t feel I needed to.”

Baelion cocked his head at Engle. He was surprised to see one of his men acting like this, especially Engle. Baelion didn’t know what to say but the night stole any chance of saying it from him. Somewhere out in the distance, a scream sounded, followed by what sounded like a cacophony of…something. The voices were not of men. All around the camp, the rasp of blades clearing sheaths and murmured whispers was heard. Fires were smothered and the tension ran thick as old blood. Silence took the camp and it stayed that way. The night was still. No bugs, and the bleeding moon they noticed did not help the situation. Baelion and his men had noticed it one night and sworn it off from conversation. The looming unnaturalness in the sky did not help.

“I want nightwatches. We sleep in shifts tonight and check it out in the morning. I have no interest on meeting whatever that was in the dark but if we must then sleep lightly.” Baelion commanded.

He looked at Engle. He understood his fear now.