He was starting to wonder about the true nature of this dream. He had it every night, and it varied only slightly.
Eroebus was wading in a river of pale water. The sky was equally white; from apex to horizon, no difference could be seen. It might be easy to get lost, though that idea had no meaning as there was nothing here to get lost from. Though the water was up to his knees, and his robes grazed the surface, neither cloth nor skin felt wet. In point of fact, nothing felt like much of anything. It was neither cold nor warm.
He was not alone. He never was. There were others, but none of them were standing, awake and alive. All of the others were floating, face to the sky, eyes closed and peaceful, with the gentle flow of the river. The flow of bodies was usually fairly slow and steady, and most were notably elderly. There was the odd younger man, woman, or(and Eroebus wasn’t sure why it distressed him so much) child. The gray waters made a gentle trickling that almost drowned out the voices from upriver. Mostly murmurs, indistinct, and some crying. Every once in a while there was a particularly anguished wail.
There wasn’t much to do or see most of the time. As Eroebus stood, though, he heard the distant sounds of a fight. Though he hadn’t partaken in violence personally in years, he recognized the sound of a battle the way others know the sound of a city market, or a barn full of animals.
These noises heralded a noticeable upturn in the frequency of the floating bodies, particularly young men. He watched the gloriously fallen drift by, every once in a while touching one gently on the face or chest. He wasn’t sure why he did that, but it made him feel better, and he had the unshakable feeling that they felt some peace from it as well.
He awoke undramatically and rose from his bug ridden bed, and once again found himself in macabre company.
“Nights filled with the dead, mornings filled with carrion birds,” he murmured, staring down the oddly silent raven that stood on the sill of his squalid room’s glassless window. He crossed the room and took the the scrap of paper that the bird held. He found himself strangely unsurprised by the message. It was probably time to move on anyway.
Eroebus arrived at the Silver Crow quietly, and quickly found a member of a friendly mercenary clan whose hospitality he could take advantage of, needing only to show him the Golden Ram insignia branded on his forearm.
The easy part over with, he sat at a table, not quite in the center of the room, but not too far out of the way either, and started to shuffle his cards quite loudly. They were almost more like tiles, each card painted on a wafer thin cedar plank, and he could produce a lovely clacking noise when he wanted to.
“Fortunes!” he crooned to the bar at large, “Read from pizar cards, guided by the gods depicted on them!” Some looked at him, some ignored. That was fine, he threw the finishing touch on his pitch, “A word of caution to any partakers! I do not claim to know the future, only to read the portents.” This part was important. Prophets were rare, and seldom believed, but most everyone trusted a proper omen.