(I was drowning, drowning beneath the dark blue of some frigid ocean – water filled my mouth, my lungs... each sputtering gasp a mockery of the one before, yet still my body fought.  Still I could not sleep.  Lungs burning with the anticipation of a breath, I forced my way upward; thrashing arms pull me toward what passes for light – a shimmer, and then!-- the uncompromising feel of solid ice against my palm.  I hammer with my fist, hand gone numb even as I smash it over and over again into the unyielding stuff.  And then – only then – very gradually... does my vision begin to fade.  The comforting warmth of death's cold embrace rescues me from the agony.  The burning in my lungs drifts far, far away even as I find my thoughts swept into the darkness of that eternal void.)

It is dusk.  Last, bloodshot rays of a lingering sun drawing their fingers across the bleak horizon.  The misty grey of swirling smoke and ash seep across the gaps between lengthening shadows; a chill wind  is in the air, and the unearthly sound of wailing, screaming voices floats up from the wooded foothills in the distance.  A great plain – sea of dark-green grass slowly growing grey in the waning light – and striking a pale path across its length, a long cobbled road.  Four roads converge upon the walls of a great, gated city – four roads spiral out toward the far points of the compass.  [i]Ashala[/i].  City of emperors.  City of Gods.

(Yet no gods grace us with their presence now – nor have they ever, not in the living memory of any mortal being.  And instead only the unholy surge of the demonic host advancing below; the scent of death and stench of fear driven toward us with the growing winds.  And we – silent grey company in the midst of Ashala's mighty host – stand ready as the wardens of old.  Blades in hand, searing blaze from the light of scriven runes across helms and armour holding the darkness back.  Etched totems surrounding us in a ring, and the quiet sound of the earth thrums beneath our feet with the crescendo of a slowly growing power.

The first wave crashes into the waiting men below.  Fear and terror notwithstanding, the grim determination of men defending their home – their very lives and existence as a race – holds them fast.  The howling abominations of the demon thralls hurl themselves upon spear and pike with abandon, three more springing to take the place of each fallen.  Thus, little by little, the sons of men find themselves driven up the hill toward our eager weapons.  Taking the last few yards before the crest of the hill, they fall back in good order through gaps in our own lines – fresh reserves stepping up from behind as the first defenders find time to regroup.

But it is no mere band of rebels we fight today – nor even some barbaric horde or rival empire – for the moment our men have regained the safety of their own lines, a new force is through into the fray.  Monstrous beasts – hideous and huge, things of charred hide and spiteful horns – charge toward our waiting battle line.  With them come the Demonic Lords: creatures of fire, ice and plague.  Death stalks cloaked along the flanks, ghostly apparitions appearing just long enough to strike their hapless victims, before vanishing again to the shadows.

Our totems hold the worst of the charge at bay, creatures slowing even as the ground rumbles and shakes beneath the strain of the interwoven spells.  For a moment longer it holds – rumble beneath shifting to a pulsing drone, like some huge metal cord pulled taut and then plucked.  

Then it snaps.  Hideous laughter screaming through in the wake of a chill wind, shards of biting ice and snow tearing across my face.   Frost laces its way across the ground even as I pull closed the visor of my helmet, image of the runes burning in my mind as my I fall into the quiet contemplation of battle.)


Even as the Empire's legions give way all around, strength of man gradually fading against the advance of their relentless foes, still the fell-handed Stewards of Ashala stand their ground, closeknit wall of flesh and steel and runic wards holding back the greater press of the demon host.  Still, no power might last forever against that might – and gradually, one by one, the men are cut down – glow fading from the runes as their will falters, inevitable death approaching.

Until, finally, there is only one.  Struggling still.  And though the charred and frozen corpses of comrades lay in a pile all about – sprinkled amongst the lumbering shapes of their fallen enemies – the figure fights still, light blazing with an unfettered fury.  Bright fire of keen blade striking time and time again upon his indomitable foe.  A creature – vaguely humanoid in shape – but formed of icey fire, crystalline veins pulsing with an unholy blue.  Back and forth across the ruined hilltop they surge, until – at the last – even as the rune-etched blade plunges into the Demon's chest, the creature clutches at the heart of its opponent, left arm shimmering an ethereal blue as it plunges through armour and flesh alike, clawing at the plateclad breast...)

(And then I am awake again.  Or so it seems.  Stark grey of the Lyceum walls from my youth, stone stacked atop stone to the untidy grey of ancient slate roof.  So near it seemed – yet so very far away... and I stood upon a bridge in the midst of the garden pond, and watched the edge of a raindrop go sliding down, down my finger and toward the pool of water below.  Only to land with a -plop- and the little ripples of approaching laughter.  Laughter.  I -knew- that voice, I thought.  Though when I glanced up all that I saw was the icy grin of that ever laughing demon, and the laughter drew into a long and wailing howl.  The sound of glass against stone.  Of ice shattering across a marble floor.  

I clutch my ears, fear and panic overtaking my senses as I turn, step – bridge gone!-- and go splashing into the frigid pool below.  I sink like a stone, kicking in futile protest against the weight pulling me down.  The laughter only echoes louder in my ears: I was drowning, drowning beneath the dark blue of some frigid ocean – water filled my mouth, my lungs... each sputtering gasp a mockery of the one before, yet still my body fought.

Again, and again!  And again the ice above... and this time – this time I stretch forth my arm, focus my will and push -through- the ice above.  Come crashing through the frigid depths into the sunny warmth of another midsummer's day – and grasping for all my worth I cling to the hope of escape.  The world shifts... and finally, I think, I am awake.)

[img]http://i46.photobucket.com/albums/f113/son_one/23e4f01e-7082-4a35-adb8-b9c315b693ea.jpg[/img]

It is quite without warning that the silent man – a moment ago sleeping quite peacefully -- his even, steady breaths giving no hint of the hidden turmoil within – opens his eyes with a start, gasps several times as attempting to breath underwater, before snatching at the waiting woman's arm, grip surprisingly strong for one ill so long.  The slate grey of his searching eyes flit uncertainly about the room – as though he were still struggling to piece together his surroundings – until at last they seem to settle upon the woman at his bedside.  It takes a moment for any kind of recognition to take hold, until eventually – some semblance of sanity seeming to return – he releases her arm, straightens a little in the cot and coughs.  Manages to ask – words rasping from between ragged breaths:

“Where... is this?  And who...” his gaze now returns to the woman as he bluntly continues: “Might... you be?”