Rena woke that morning in a thoughtful mood, it was too obvious now that these dreams were connected, that clearly something was weaving them together into... a story, although a story of what she couldn't tell. There were characters, like out of a story book, a boy, had to be a boy, perhaps that was a hunch at best, but Rena thought that made sense. The other was a woman, or would it be a girl to go along with the boy? It felt like a love story, figures... seeing as her own life was beginning to parallel one, speaking about, well when it came to her love life, suppose it could be called that, she still hadn't confronted Noboyuki yet. If she were to guess part of the reason had to be how he seemed to be thinking a lot, though he hid himself well, his actual mood still bled through his shield. Wonder what he could be occupied with...
Back to the Field again, not the Court. It was not empty like the other two dreams, no a group of figures wandered in the grass, maybe fifty men give or take, like the other Faceless from the Court they did not have their faces, while still having them. Unlike the Court Faceless, the Field faceless did not look like they were well off, if anything they looked tired, weak, perhaps hopeless. Unlike the Court Faceless the Field Faceless, did not dress in bright colors, no they were "armored" but not liked the Executioners. Iron pots that looked like they were hammered down to function as breastplates, ragged leather gloves, torn shirts, they had weapons, but not the shiny halberds, farming tools, the sickle, the scythe, although a select few wielded dull swords, clearly not well maintained.
This time the air was tense as the Faceless moved forward towards whatever objective they had in mind, to whatever destiny awaited them.
Not Faceless... Freemen...
Those bodiless words rang out, yet these Freemen seemed not to hear them, but at that moment, almost like a quick snap, the world pulled into focus. The Freemen then had faces, they looked human as anyone else without that distinct element of unknown that once plagued them, much more was revealed, such as every single one was male, and every single one had a grave expression about him. It was clear they were uncertain, that is all but one Freeman who lead the group.
The Fool
The Fool waited before the Freemen ordering them to stop the march, he had a speech, although like the Faced One his words were also muffled, yet they were still strong. As he spoke, whatever he had to say, held a positive effect among the Freemen, they nodded at his
rhetoric, enveloped into the passion of this man's speech. Before long the Freemen were actually motivated, the Fool fueled this by raising the volume of his voice, pacing before the Freemen, they were now cheering, they looked not happy, but under the fervor produced by the Fool. The Fool lifted his hand into a fist.
The Fist of Revolution
The Fool looked triumphant. To liberty, my brothers!
He spoke.
Not the Fool... the Leader
The Freemen were stunned, the Leader was stunned... blood dripped from his chest, the scrap breastplate held pitifully against the arrow. The Leader feel to his knees, then forward, where his blood continued to pool before him.
Not the Leader... the Deadman.
More arrows rained from the sky, thousands, if not millions covered the heavens above, looking like they were vengeful winged demons rather than arrows fired from a man made bow. The Freemen crumpled without resistance, the arrows forced them down, onto the ground, now soaked in red.
Not the Freemen... the Deadmen.
In the distance, along the horizon far from the Deadmen, stood the silhouettes of Executioners, cold, stoic, and commanding as always. The Deadmen were left behind, the Deadman, almost appeared separated from his brothers, no longer seeming as the leader, but the outcast. The banners had more company, graves, shallow and barely marked by the ever symbolic wooden cross. The Deadmen rested... yet not truly so.
The Tyrant of Eskar continued to expand Her dominion. 