The sun was low in the sky, casting dappled gold through the leaves of an old oak tree.
The breeze carried the scent of earth and morning dew as it whispered through an overgrown garden that had not been tended since the previous owner—a former resident of the Hope—had moved away. The sound of chattering birds came from somewhere in the nearby hedge, oblivious to the small figure hunched over a rough wooden table, scribbling intensely on a scrap of parchment.
His hand had begun to cramp. Not from the cold, though the wind had a bite, but from the weight of each letter. He was so focused on perfecting his handwriting that he might as well have been chiseling memories into fragile stone.
'I remember.'
These words had formed first, standing alone at the top of the page. A declaration or perhaps a reckoning as he quietly warred against the forgetfulness of time and death—shrouds that had clung to his mind since waking in this strange new body. His quill scratched out a name and title.
'Sorhadin Sands, The Illusionist of South Felding.'
He could still feel the heat, the endless shifting dunes beneath his feet. That was before the crown, before the burden of fate, when he was simply a wanderer, trickster, and scholar of hidden things. He had walked unseen, shaping weightless ideas that moved like the desert mirage.
But the sands had swallowed South Felding long ago. He wrote again.
'Sorhadin the Bronze, Grandmaster of the Aegis Arcanum.'
The weight of a brown robe had settled on his shoulders, not the simple linen of a gnome's tunic, but the heavy Ironwood weave of a master illusionist. He had been one of many—gold for the warriors, blue for the seers and green for the sages, violet for the builders. But brown... brown was for the planners, the hidden hands that guided the powers that be. The mortar for the foundation that the others were building.
A master of grand illusions, and yet, even he had not been able to hide from the end.
His fingers tightened around the quill. The ink pooled slightly before he wrote the next name, slow and deliberate.
'Sorhadin Nocthain, Bearer of the Cursed Crown, Last King of the Ivory Throne.'
A jeweled circle of tarnished ivory, stained with the blood of an empire. A throne room filled with ghosts, where his voice had once commanded armies, and now echoed with the footsteps of a new host. He had carried the weight of a kingdom's ruin, believing, even in the final hours, that the tide of destruction could be turned.
He had been wrong.
The wind shifted, rustling the parchment. His eyes traced the names as the ink dried, and his memories settled.
The last king. The veiled illusionist. The grandmaster. Each was a part of him that died with the past. His hand moved, almost without thought. One by one, he crossed them out, striking them from the page, from the world, and from himself. The garden was quiet now, save for the bleating of a goat and the twinkle of wind chimes in the distance. He thought a moment longer and remembered a nickname he once had.
Beneath the crossed-out names, he wrote:
'Din Dawnthief'
Someone special had given him that name long before any of the others. He then finished the line.
'Gnome Illusionist, Resident of the Hope, and Stealer of Second Chances.'
The world had ended once.
Perhaps, this time, he could truly begin anew.~
His hand had begun to cramp. Not from the cold, though the wind had a bite, but from the weight of each letter. He was so focused on perfecting his handwriting that he might as well have been chiseling memories into fragile stone.
'I remember.'
These words had formed first, standing alone at the top of the page. A declaration or perhaps a reckoning as he quietly warred against the forgetfulness of time and death—shrouds that had clung to his mind since waking in this strange new body. His quill scratched out a name and title.
'Sorhadin Sands, The Illusionist of South Felding.'
He could still feel the heat, the endless shifting dunes beneath his feet. That was before the crown, before the burden of fate, when he was simply a wanderer, trickster, and scholar of hidden things. He had walked unseen, shaping weightless ideas that moved like the desert mirage.
But the sands had swallowed South Felding long ago. He wrote again.
'Sorhadin the Bronze, Grandmaster of the Aegis Arcanum.'
The weight of a brown robe had settled on his shoulders, not the simple linen of a gnome's tunic, but the heavy Ironwood weave of a master illusionist. He had been one of many—gold for the warriors, blue for the seers and green for the sages, violet for the builders. But brown... brown was for the planners, the hidden hands that guided the powers that be. The mortar for the foundation that the others were building.
A master of grand illusions, and yet, even he had not been able to hide from the end.
His fingers tightened around the quill. The ink pooled slightly before he wrote the next name, slow and deliberate.
'Sorhadin Nocthain, Bearer of the Cursed Crown, Last King of the Ivory Throne.'
A jeweled circle of tarnished ivory, stained with the blood of an empire. A throne room filled with ghosts, where his voice had once commanded armies, and now echoed with the footsteps of a new host. He had carried the weight of a kingdom's ruin, believing, even in the final hours, that the tide of destruction could be turned.
He had been wrong.
The wind shifted, rustling the parchment. His eyes traced the names as the ink dried, and his memories settled.
The last king. The veiled illusionist. The grandmaster. Each was a part of him that died with the past. His hand moved, almost without thought. One by one, he crossed them out, striking them from the page, from the world, and from himself. The garden was quiet now, save for the bleating of a goat and the twinkle of wind chimes in the distance. He thought a moment longer and remembered a nickname he once had.
Beneath the crossed-out names, he wrote:
'Din Dawnthief'
Someone special had given him that name long before any of the others. He then finished the line.
'Gnome Illusionist, Resident of the Hope, and Stealer of Second Chances.'
The world had ended once.
Perhaps, this time, he could truly begin anew.~
A soul-deep shiver runs down your spine, in stark contrast to the heat of a roaring hearthfire.
You find yourself in a hall richly decorated in the Vanir style. Gilded knotwork dragons entwine in eternal combat along the pillars, while ivy and colorful tapestries adorn the walls. A cloaked figure sits cross-legged by the central hearth with a raven perches on one hand. Her hood is pulled low over her eyes, but the strands of pink and brown hair spilling over her shoulders are proof enough of her identity. This could only be Beowulf’s Hall.
She is so deep in meditation that she doesn’t react to the other Soulforge’s watchful presence, at least, not until a violent, full-body shudder disturbs her.
The raven startles, hopping from her hand before letting out a concerned caw. Beowulf takes a breath then pushes back her hood. She rubs her face and temples, chasing away the fatigue, before answering the raven’s unspoken question.
“I’m all right, Wyrd. But…something else isn’t.”
It’s not the feeling of one of her Dreamwalkers in extreme distress—she knows that sensation all too well—and it had no place in the memory she was viewing. She had heard Dreamers talk about the sensation of someone stepping on your grave and maybe that was the closest comparison, but even that doesn't feel quite right.
It wasn’t directed at her, it just was.
But whatever caused it, it was definitely an omen of trouble to come.
“So you felt it too.” Beowulf’s eyes meet yours as she quirks an eyebrow. “I guess we’re in for a little excitement. But I need a minute and I think you have other places to be.”
She waves her hand in dismissal and your vision shifts again.~
She is so deep in meditation that she doesn’t react to the other Soulforge’s watchful presence, at least, not until a violent, full-body shudder disturbs her.
The raven startles, hopping from her hand before letting out a concerned caw. Beowulf takes a breath then pushes back her hood. She rubs her face and temples, chasing away the fatigue, before answering the raven’s unspoken question.
“I’m all right, Wyrd. But…something else isn’t.”
It’s not the feeling of one of her Dreamwalkers in extreme distress—she knows that sensation all too well—and it had no place in the memory she was viewing. She had heard Dreamers talk about the sensation of someone stepping on your grave and maybe that was the closest comparison, but even that doesn't feel quite right.
It wasn’t directed at her, it just was.
But whatever caused it, it was definitely an omen of trouble to come.
“So you felt it too.” Beowulf’s eyes meet yours as she quirks an eyebrow. “I guess we’re in for a little excitement. But I need a minute and I think you have other places to be.”
She waves her hand in dismissal and your vision shifts again.~
Your vision abruptly shifts to rolling static.
As your eyes adjust, you begin to make out the image of fields behind the static.
In the depths of the fields, where the static grows like wheat stalks, a normal human man in a black suit and tie lies in a fetal position. As the stalks begin to bud all around him, a sound grows louder. A constant, erratic hiss of white noise that crackles and sputters like a thousand tiny, indistinct voices. The man opens his eyes in the usual fashion and begins the slow process of unraveling his incredibly normal human body as the static plants bloom.
Standing, the man stretches and cracks his ankles, then begins slowly cracking his joints one by one until he stretches his arms and hands wide, cracking each of his finger joints individually. He then stretches his normal human neck from side to side, turning it until his face is fully facing behind him, before returning to the normal position. The perfectly normal man blinks his eyes one at a time and then smiles.
As the man smiles, he reveals rows and rows of jagged, mostly human teeth, all pressed together and nearly overflowing from his mouth. His smile contains so many teeth that you wonder how they all fit in there, let alone how he even kept his mouth shut with this pearly avalanche crowding to escape.
Then the man who smiles with too many teeth seems to make direct eye contact with you for the first time. As he does, his pupils dilate and his nostrils flare.
And the sound of static rises before it cuts off.~
In the depths of the fields, where the static grows like wheat stalks, a normal human man in a black suit and tie lies in a fetal position. As the stalks begin to bud all around him, a sound grows louder. A constant, erratic hiss of white noise that crackles and sputters like a thousand tiny, indistinct voices. The man opens his eyes in the usual fashion and begins the slow process of unraveling his incredibly normal human body as the static plants bloom.
Standing, the man stretches and cracks his ankles, then begins slowly cracking his joints one by one until he stretches his arms and hands wide, cracking each of his finger joints individually. He then stretches his normal human neck from side to side, turning it until his face is fully facing behind him, before returning to the normal position. The perfectly normal man blinks his eyes one at a time and then smiles.
As the man smiles, he reveals rows and rows of jagged, mostly human teeth, all pressed together and nearly overflowing from his mouth. His smile contains so many teeth that you wonder how they all fit in there, let alone how he even kept his mouth shut with this pearly avalanche crowding to escape.
Then the man who smiles with too many teeth seems to make direct eye contact with you for the first time. As he does, his pupils dilate and his nostrils flare.
And the sound of static rises before it cuts off.~
The smell of clean, recycled air and furniture polish fills your nostrils.
Your vision shifts to a marble hallway lined with signs describing and pointing out different exhibits. You assume you are in a museum. Footsteps echo in the distance, though you see no one.
To your left, a sign marks an exhibit titled "The Evolution of Writing"—ancient clay tablets rest beneath dim lighting, their surfaces carved with delicate, unreadable script. Nearby, another display case holds quill pens, typewriter keys, and the first iterations of printed books. Further down, a grand skeleton of some long-extinct beast looms over a section labeled "Creatures of a Forgotten Era." Its skull is cracked. A plaque beneath it has been shattered, its words unreadable.
You follow another sign pointing into a room labeled "Artifacts Through the Ages."
The exhibit is a wreck.
Smashed glass litters the floor. Benches are overturned, garbage is throw around the room, and every display case is empty. Torn informational plaques sway slightly, moved by an unseen draft.
In the center of the room, a hooded figure stands motionless.
As your vision moves to see the figure's face the cloak collapses revealing it was held up by a broom leaning against a chair.
As you look down at the chair you see a single paper umbrella shaped like a palm tree.~
To your left, a sign marks an exhibit titled "The Evolution of Writing"—ancient clay tablets rest beneath dim lighting, their surfaces carved with delicate, unreadable script. Nearby, another display case holds quill pens, typewriter keys, and the first iterations of printed books. Further down, a grand skeleton of some long-extinct beast looms over a section labeled "Creatures of a Forgotten Era." Its skull is cracked. A plaque beneath it has been shattered, its words unreadable.
You follow another sign pointing into a room labeled "Artifacts Through the Ages."
The exhibit is a wreck.
Smashed glass litters the floor. Benches are overturned, garbage is throw around the room, and every display case is empty. Torn informational plaques sway slightly, moved by an unseen draft.
In the center of the room, a hooded figure stands motionless.
As your vision moves to see the figure's face the cloak collapses revealing it was held up by a broom leaning against a chair.
As you look down at the chair you see a single paper umbrella shaped like a palm tree.~
The howl of wild dogs pulls you forward, urging you to follow them.
At least a dozen of them weave through a dense forest, their steps steady, their purpose unknown. For a time, they simply travel, their presence the only constant in the shifting landscape. Some time passes as you track them and the presence of the Soulforge almost seems to leave, as if this vision was a mistake.
Then something changes.
Your vision falters before snapping into focus on a single tree.
The tree seems as if it were halfway to the grave in a literal sense.
One half of the tree is alive in the most unnatural way, bursting with vibrant green, its leaves unfurling impossibly fast. It is the height of spring, but too much so—its growth parasitic, ravenous. The realization creeps into your mind, unsettling and cold.
The other half is a corpse. Gnarled, twisted branches stretch skyward like skeletal fingers. The stench of rot clings to the air, thick enough to taste, seeping into something deeper than your senses.
The pack notices too. Curious, they inch closer, sniffing at the tree’s roots. That’s when you see it.
Slivers of energy—one pulsing with raw, overwhelming life, the other curling with consuming decay—snake outward. They lash onto the dogs, wrapping around fur and limbs, seeping into flesh. The pack doesn’t have time to react before the change begins.
A low, distorted growl rises. Then another. The sound sinks into your soul, vibrating with something ancient, something wrong. The ground beneath them darkens, stained with the warring energies now woven into their bodies. The pack fractures. Snarling. Snapping. The forest trembles.
Your vision blurs, fading into the echoes of the pack turning on itself.
The last thing you see is the tree, its roots spreading deeper into the forest. Reaching. Growing. Waiting.~
Then something changes.
Your vision falters before snapping into focus on a single tree.
The tree seems as if it were halfway to the grave in a literal sense.
One half of the tree is alive in the most unnatural way, bursting with vibrant green, its leaves unfurling impossibly fast. It is the height of spring, but too much so—its growth parasitic, ravenous. The realization creeps into your mind, unsettling and cold.
The other half is a corpse. Gnarled, twisted branches stretch skyward like skeletal fingers. The stench of rot clings to the air, thick enough to taste, seeping into something deeper than your senses.
The pack notices too. Curious, they inch closer, sniffing at the tree’s roots. That’s when you see it.
Slivers of energy—one pulsing with raw, overwhelming life, the other curling with consuming decay—snake outward. They lash onto the dogs, wrapping around fur and limbs, seeping into flesh. The pack doesn’t have time to react before the change begins.
A low, distorted growl rises. Then another. The sound sinks into your soul, vibrating with something ancient, something wrong. The ground beneath them darkens, stained with the warring energies now woven into their bodies. The pack fractures. Snarling. Snapping. The forest trembles.
Your vision blurs, fading into the echoes of the pack turning on itself.
The last thing you see is the tree, its roots spreading deeper into the forest. Reaching. Growing. Waiting.~
The sky becomes an Ocean, but it is not filled with water.
It churns with red smoke and inky shadows that slowly twist. From the heights, pirates dressed like they are from Planet-X descend. They hang on ropes made of of star-stuff, glowing like molten metal, cutting through the air as they drop toward a city below.
The city is composed of maligned crystal towers. Jagged mosaics and cracked stained glass—some brightly colored, some in pale hues, others in black and white. They sing as the wind catches their fractured faces. But something flickers in the windows. A distortion. You see the reflection of a werewolf in a pinstriped uniform as he grips a wooden bat, claws too long to hold it properly. Another depicts a dragon curled around a stadium, its scales numbered like a scoreboard, its eyes two full moons, staring into the void. A third, shows the ruins of a tank, vines twist through melted steel and coil around the rusted cannon. The hastily painted outline of a baseball diamond is fading on the side. The vines pulse with green light.
More strange figures arrive, but it's impossible to tell if they are defending the city or simply attacking the space pirates.
Robots. Faceless, silver-limbed things, flying in perfect formation. Their hands crackle with blue fire. They crash into the pirates, each plummeting to the ground in a heap as though reciting a deadly ballet. Where you would expect to see a crumpled pile of flesh and metal is instead a pile of soul stones. It becomes clear these are figments, and that your soulforge vision is being mangled by some outside force.
The scene shifts and loses focus.
Somewhere, on an island of glass floating in an endless sea, someone is running.
Their footsteps leave behind tiny ferns, fragile and fleeting, blooming only to wither as soon as they sprout.
Behind them, the ocean rises. Not in waves. Something else. Something older. Something hungry.
The vision distorts. Twists. A moment of clarity, then--
A sharp break. The sky folds in on itself, swallowing the world.
And without warning, the first pitch is thrown and the crowd roars....~
The city is composed of maligned crystal towers. Jagged mosaics and cracked stained glass—some brightly colored, some in pale hues, others in black and white. They sing as the wind catches their fractured faces. But something flickers in the windows. A distortion. You see the reflection of a werewolf in a pinstriped uniform as he grips a wooden bat, claws too long to hold it properly. Another depicts a dragon curled around a stadium, its scales numbered like a scoreboard, its eyes two full moons, staring into the void. A third, shows the ruins of a tank, vines twist through melted steel and coil around the rusted cannon. The hastily painted outline of a baseball diamond is fading on the side. The vines pulse with green light.
More strange figures arrive, but it's impossible to tell if they are defending the city or simply attacking the space pirates.
Robots. Faceless, silver-limbed things, flying in perfect formation. Their hands crackle with blue fire. They crash into the pirates, each plummeting to the ground in a heap as though reciting a deadly ballet. Where you would expect to see a crumpled pile of flesh and metal is instead a pile of soul stones. It becomes clear these are figments, and that your soulforge vision is being mangled by some outside force.
The scene shifts and loses focus.
Somewhere, on an island of glass floating in an endless sea, someone is running.
Their footsteps leave behind tiny ferns, fragile and fleeting, blooming only to wither as soon as they sprout.
Behind them, the ocean rises. Not in waves. Something else. Something older. Something hungry.
The vision distorts. Twists. A moment of clarity, then--
A sharp break. The sky folds in on itself, swallowing the world.
And without warning, the first pitch is thrown and the crowd roars....~
