Your vision shatters into a kaleidoscope of sensation.
It feels as if the universe is pressing down on you in a thousand different ways. You hear the most pleasant tranquil sounds of happiness and joy mixed with the sounds of screams, horror, and death. For a few moments the only sensation you have is the basic instinct of fight or flight—and fight is not an option.
Slowly, almost painfully it feels as if the forge presses your senses against and into the strange rapids until it pushes you out to the other side, leaving you gasping for air.
You see the scant edges of a piece of land and close to hundreds of outlines of people running. As you watch, you see the sudden force of the Unformed Dreaming crash into one of them and they vanish, consumed by the depths. Something in your mind knows that death is the least painful result of such a fate. And then it clicks… This isn't just the edges of an island on the edge of the unformed dreaming. This isn't even now. This is the time of the flood, the time when the forge had to make a hard choice: to save the dreamwalkers or risk losing everything. When it knew that, for this brief moment, it had to work directly against the wishes of its chosen. You feel your own emotions mix with those of the Forge and something almost like anguish begins to claw at you as the scene continues to unfold.
Crushing pressure and waves crash all around these people as they run and run… and run. You watch as more and more succumb to the flood and its horrifying promise of the end. The very land seems to cry out in horror and finality as what exists in certainty fails. Your vision begins to fade as the last thing you can see is that the few dozen people left climb to the edges of a ruined city for the hope of salvation, but the gate was shut.~
Slowly, almost painfully it feels as if the forge presses your senses against and into the strange rapids until it pushes you out to the other side, leaving you gasping for air.
You see the scant edges of a piece of land and close to hundreds of outlines of people running. As you watch, you see the sudden force of the Unformed Dreaming crash into one of them and they vanish, consumed by the depths. Something in your mind knows that death is the least painful result of such a fate. And then it clicks… This isn't just the edges of an island on the edge of the unformed dreaming. This isn't even now. This is the time of the flood, the time when the forge had to make a hard choice: to save the dreamwalkers or risk losing everything. When it knew that, for this brief moment, it had to work directly against the wishes of its chosen. You feel your own emotions mix with those of the Forge and something almost like anguish begins to claw at you as the scene continues to unfold.
Crushing pressure and waves crash all around these people as they run and run… and run. You watch as more and more succumb to the flood and its horrifying promise of the end. The very land seems to cry out in horror and finality as what exists in certainty fails. Your vision begins to fade as the last thing you can see is that the few dozen people left climb to the edges of a ruined city for the hope of salvation, but the gate was shut.~
The forge vision settles onto the town of Zates
It was bustling with the humbug of a normal day's work for a mining town. You catch the gist of conversations that are not clearly heard but you can make out the meaning behind. A new mineshaft has been opened and ever since the visit of dreamwalkers the town has seen a boom in both residents and visitors. A sense of joy rolls through town as your vision catches someone that looks semi familiar and the forge almost seems to have a moment of regret about sharing this vision.
A suite of power armor with a glowing green eye in the center seems to be being used as a scarecrow in a person's yard. A man with an unkempt mess of grey-black knots on his head seems to be leaning up against the post to the porch of a house. He is sorting through a stack of papers and letters in his hands as he begins to talk…. Apparently to himself? There is no one else that can be seen from the forges perspective.
“WellyouknowIappreciatealltheworkwedotogetheritsurehelpsmekeepthetownwellstocked.”
“Wellyeahthosefriendlydreamwalkersareofcourseoffonsomecrazytriptosavetheworldorsometinlikedat.”
“Wellofcourseilltakeatripthere… noofcourseicanbesublteaboutitormynameaintfirstnamefishinlastnamegregg.”
“Yeahicanstopatthebankanddepositmechecks”
The man stands up from his position and stuffs the paperwork into his pocket except for what seems to be two paychecks and shoves them into the door mail receiver before joyfully whistling as he heads into town. Giving the Exo-Crow a pat on the shoulder on his way out.
“Heymayorashvallgonnabeouttatownforabitagainmindthedeviledeggsforme!”~
A suite of power armor with a glowing green eye in the center seems to be being used as a scarecrow in a person's yard. A man with an unkempt mess of grey-black knots on his head seems to be leaning up against the post to the porch of a house. He is sorting through a stack of papers and letters in his hands as he begins to talk…. Apparently to himself? There is no one else that can be seen from the forges perspective.
“WellyouknowIappreciatealltheworkwedotogetheritsurehelpsmekeepthetownwellstocked.”
“Wellyeahthosefriendlydreamwalkersareofcourseoffonsomecrazytriptosavetheworldorsometinlikedat.”
“Wellofcourseilltakeatripthere… noofcourseicanbesublteaboutitormynameaintfirstnamefishinlastnamegregg.”
“Yeahicanstopatthebankanddepositmechecks”
The man stands up from his position and stuffs the paperwork into his pocket except for what seems to be two paychecks and shoves them into the door mail receiver before joyfully whistling as he heads into town. Giving the Exo-Crow a pat on the shoulder on his way out.
“Heymayorashvallgonnabeouttatownforabitagainmindthedeviledeggsforme!”~
Thunder rolls softly through the distance as you are dragged through the mist of the Unformed Dreaming.
Your vision settles and through the drifting fog, a familiar vessel appears. The battered scouting ship floats aimlessly across the currents of the Dreaming, sails torn to ribbons and its hull cracked where it once struck unseen land. No crew moves across the deck now. No voices carry across the wind.
Only silence.
The deck is scattered with the remains of a violent struggle. Pistols lie where they were dropped. A rusting cutlass is still lodged in the mast as if someone tried to pin the ship itself in place. Old blood stains the planks in dark patches that the strange winds of the Dreaming have never washed away. A lantern sways gently near the helm though no hand touches it.
Your vision drifts downward into the hold of the ship.
You glimpse shadows in the corners, places where crew once stood, they remain only as ash-gray outlines, burned into the planks like scars.
The rune covered crate lies shattered open. Splintered boards and broken wards are scattered across the floor. Around the hold, the walls have been carved with frantic markings scratched deep into the wood.
The same word appears again and again in uneven letters.
strings
strings
strings
The puppet is gone.
The air hums faintly, like a bow dragged slowly across a tightened wire. Ropes hanging from the beams twitch softly, swaying even though the air is still.
The vision shifts again.
Now you see the man who escaped.
The pirate who fled the chaos in a lifeboat walks through a crowded dockside street. Several months have hollowed him. His beard is unkempt and his eyes are heavy with exhaustion. Sleep clearly abandoned him long ago.
He grips a coil of rope at his belt like it is a weapon.
People avoid him when he speaks. In taverns he mutters the same frantic words to anyone who will listen.
“I didn’t mean to open it. I didn’t mean to open it.”
Some laugh. Others shake their heads and leave him to his drink. But the fear never leaves his face.
Your vision follows him into a dim rented room. He sleeps poorly, tossing in restless dreams.
Suddenly he wakes with a sharp gasp, sweat soaking his shirt. His breathing is ragged as his eyes slowly move toward the foot of his bed.
For a moment something sits there.
The puppet.
Its glass eyes gleam faintly in the dark. Its carved smile is wide and patient. Its head tilts slightly as though admiring him. Its head turns again, this time towards you, as though it knows it is being watched. The man blinks and the puppet is gone.
He stares into the darkness for several long moments before his lips begin to move.
“I’ll bring them to you,” he says.
And then, the vision fades, leaving only the sound of faint laughter trailing behind you.~
Only silence.
The deck is scattered with the remains of a violent struggle. Pistols lie where they were dropped. A rusting cutlass is still lodged in the mast as if someone tried to pin the ship itself in place. Old blood stains the planks in dark patches that the strange winds of the Dreaming have never washed away. A lantern sways gently near the helm though no hand touches it.
Your vision drifts downward into the hold of the ship.
You glimpse shadows in the corners, places where crew once stood, they remain only as ash-gray outlines, burned into the planks like scars.
The rune covered crate lies shattered open. Splintered boards and broken wards are scattered across the floor. Around the hold, the walls have been carved with frantic markings scratched deep into the wood.
The same word appears again and again in uneven letters.
strings
strings
strings
The puppet is gone.
The air hums faintly, like a bow dragged slowly across a tightened wire. Ropes hanging from the beams twitch softly, swaying even though the air is still.
The vision shifts again.
Now you see the man who escaped.
The pirate who fled the chaos in a lifeboat walks through a crowded dockside street. Several months have hollowed him. His beard is unkempt and his eyes are heavy with exhaustion. Sleep clearly abandoned him long ago.
He grips a coil of rope at his belt like it is a weapon.
People avoid him when he speaks. In taverns he mutters the same frantic words to anyone who will listen.
“I didn’t mean to open it. I didn’t mean to open it.”
Some laugh. Others shake their heads and leave him to his drink. But the fear never leaves his face.
Your vision follows him into a dim rented room. He sleeps poorly, tossing in restless dreams.
Suddenly he wakes with a sharp gasp, sweat soaking his shirt. His breathing is ragged as his eyes slowly move toward the foot of his bed.
For a moment something sits there.
The puppet.
Its glass eyes gleam faintly in the dark. Its carved smile is wide and patient. Its head tilts slightly as though admiring him. Its head turns again, this time towards you, as though it knows it is being watched. The man blinks and the puppet is gone.
He stares into the darkness for several long moments before his lips begin to move.
“I’ll bring them to you,” he says.
And then, the vision fades, leaving only the sound of faint laughter trailing behind you.~
You hear a wind howl across high set stones.
It carried whispers from behind closed doors where the powers that be tried very hard to pretend they were not afraid.
Below stood a city of banners. White marble climbed toward a gray sky, its spires crowned with the symbols of the Avalon Ascendancy. Torchlight burned golden along the walls, while somewhere deeper inside the stone halls people debated the fate of something they did not yet understand. Their voices were only fragments.
“—reckless precedent—”
“—the League already has autonomy—”
“—the Monarch has spoken—”
“—and if she falls again?”
The wind carried those words away like dust.
Far beyond the palace, where the banners of the Ascendancy no longer cast their shadows, another light burned. It was quieter and much older. At the edge of a ruined temple stood a woman cloaked in moonlight. Pale feathers brushed the air behind her mantle like the memory of wings.
Harmony did not look toward the palace. She surveyed the people before her with an owl-like patience. Studied them the way a smith studies metal fresh from the forge. They had come from many roads. Soldiers with worn armor. Scholars with ink-stained hands. Wanderers whose eyes had seen too much of Nightmares. Some stood with confidence. Others with uncertainty. But none of them stood empty.
“You know what this magic is,” she said quietly. “It was once held by monsters,” Harmony continued. “And before them, by Primordials.” Her voice did not rise. It did not need to. “Tonight we ensure that no god or mortal may covet this mantle ever again.”
The words struck the gathering like a hammer against iron.
Several of the gathered figures shifted uneasily. One of them—a young woman with the wary posture of a soldier—finally spoke. “They say the Ascendancy doesn’t trust you.”
A faint smile touched Harmony’s lips. “They are wise to be cautious.”
“And the League?” another asked.
“Some remember what I was,” Harmony said. She did not sound angry, only honest. The silence that followed was heavy, but not hopeless. Because the people standing before her had not come for reassurance, but with purpose.
Harmony stepped forward and moonlight followed her like a loyal companion. “You will not serve me,” she told them. A few brows furrowed at that. “You will serve the mantle,” she continued. “The mind that binds the world together. Memory. Thought. Truth.” She looked from one face to another. “Kings will mistrust you. Priests will question you. Some will call you dangerous.” Her pale eyes glinted faintly. “They will not be entirely wrong.”
The wind rose again, stirring cloaks and banners.
“The Mind must answer to something greater than fear,” Harmony said. “Or it falls in league with the very villains we fight.” She lifted a hand. Unseen sparks, motes of the Mind Mantle, flared to life and moved towards the gathered figures as each accepted this responsibility. Thought itself seemed to bend for a moment—threads of memory, instinct, and insight weaving together like silver filaments in a loom only the Soulforge could truly see.
A new pattern.
A new paradigm.
The first of the gathering straightened slowly as understanding took hold.
“What are we called?” someone asked.
Harmony considered the question with the patience of someone who knew names mattered. Far away, in the marble halls of the Ascendancy, advisors argued over reports and risks. Over what it meant that a former general of the Nightmare King now gathered followers with the sanction of their own monarch. Over what might happen next. But here, in the ruined temple beneath the patient moon, Harmony spoke the word that would carry into those halls like a stone dropped into still water.
“You are Clerics,” she said. “Not priests. Not soldiers. Someone who guides the mind towards a noble purpose. You answer to the truth of things rather than the authority of fallen gods or would-be kings.”
In the distance, thunder rolled across the horizon.
Somewhere in the palace, a candle guttered as a sealed report reached the wrong pair of hands.
Somewhere else, a monarch stared out a window and wondered whether hope was worth the price.
And in the quiet ruin beneath the moon, the first Clerics of the Mind Mantle bowed their heads taking a shared vow.
The Soulforge watched. And the night slowly burned away into dawn.~
Below stood a city of banners. White marble climbed toward a gray sky, its spires crowned with the symbols of the Avalon Ascendancy. Torchlight burned golden along the walls, while somewhere deeper inside the stone halls people debated the fate of something they did not yet understand. Their voices were only fragments.
“—reckless precedent—”
“—the League already has autonomy—”
“—the Monarch has spoken—”
“—and if she falls again?”
The wind carried those words away like dust.
Far beyond the palace, where the banners of the Ascendancy no longer cast their shadows, another light burned. It was quieter and much older. At the edge of a ruined temple stood a woman cloaked in moonlight. Pale feathers brushed the air behind her mantle like the memory of wings.
Harmony did not look toward the palace. She surveyed the people before her with an owl-like patience. Studied them the way a smith studies metal fresh from the forge. They had come from many roads. Soldiers with worn armor. Scholars with ink-stained hands. Wanderers whose eyes had seen too much of Nightmares. Some stood with confidence. Others with uncertainty. But none of them stood empty.
“You know what this magic is,” she said quietly. “It was once held by monsters,” Harmony continued. “And before them, by Primordials.” Her voice did not rise. It did not need to. “Tonight we ensure that no god or mortal may covet this mantle ever again.”
The words struck the gathering like a hammer against iron.
Several of the gathered figures shifted uneasily. One of them—a young woman with the wary posture of a soldier—finally spoke. “They say the Ascendancy doesn’t trust you.”
A faint smile touched Harmony’s lips. “They are wise to be cautious.”
“And the League?” another asked.
“Some remember what I was,” Harmony said. She did not sound angry, only honest. The silence that followed was heavy, but not hopeless. Because the people standing before her had not come for reassurance, but with purpose.
Harmony stepped forward and moonlight followed her like a loyal companion. “You will not serve me,” she told them. A few brows furrowed at that. “You will serve the mantle,” she continued. “The mind that binds the world together. Memory. Thought. Truth.” She looked from one face to another. “Kings will mistrust you. Priests will question you. Some will call you dangerous.” Her pale eyes glinted faintly. “They will not be entirely wrong.”
The wind rose again, stirring cloaks and banners.
“The Mind must answer to something greater than fear,” Harmony said. “Or it falls in league with the very villains we fight.” She lifted a hand. Unseen sparks, motes of the Mind Mantle, flared to life and moved towards the gathered figures as each accepted this responsibility. Thought itself seemed to bend for a moment—threads of memory, instinct, and insight weaving together like silver filaments in a loom only the Soulforge could truly see.
A new pattern.
A new paradigm.
The first of the gathering straightened slowly as understanding took hold.
“What are we called?” someone asked.
Harmony considered the question with the patience of someone who knew names mattered. Far away, in the marble halls of the Ascendancy, advisors argued over reports and risks. Over what it meant that a former general of the Nightmare King now gathered followers with the sanction of their own monarch. Over what might happen next. But here, in the ruined temple beneath the patient moon, Harmony spoke the word that would carry into those halls like a stone dropped into still water.
“You are Clerics,” she said. “Not priests. Not soldiers. Someone who guides the mind towards a noble purpose. You answer to the truth of things rather than the authority of fallen gods or would-be kings.”
In the distance, thunder rolled across the horizon.
Somewhere in the palace, a candle guttered as a sealed report reached the wrong pair of hands.
Somewhere else, a monarch stared out a window and wondered whether hope was worth the price.
And in the quiet ruin beneath the moon, the first Clerics of the Mind Mantle bowed their heads taking a shared vow.
The Soulforge watched. And the night slowly burned away into dawn.~
A chill fills the empty void of your minds.
Not a wind or winter storm—just a creeping, unnatural cold that stills the joints and pains the lungs. Magic fissures open around you as cosmic veils grow thin, then ice forms around the fissures and veins of white spread outwards like a spider’s web, freezing the fissures into open wounds.
Then the world tilts, and this vision takes hold.
You see ice pillars that rise like trees toward the ceiling of a frozen feasting hall. Snow drifts slowly through the broken roof, each flake falling with ephemeral patience, as though time itself has slowed to watch what happens here. Blue fires burn in braziers carved from crystal. The light is cold and dim.
At the far end of the hall, you remember a table where years prior the entire fey host had welcomed the Dreamwalkers as guests. In its place sits a throne of carved frost. Upon this newly built throne sits Jocham Von Raphael, King of the Winter Fey.
The winter crown rests on his brow, a circlet of blue and red memory crystals that gleam with a faint inner light. Before him kneel knights of the Winter Court, their pale faces turned upward, waiting for the commands of their lord.
One of them speaks carefully, the way courtiers do when the future hangs on the mood of a despot. “Your Majesty… the Summer Court has agreed to meet. If Spring and Autumn are restored, the balance of the seasons may finally return.”
For a moment, something mortal flickers across Jocham’s face. Relief, perhaps. Hope.
His hand tightens on the arm of the throne and he begins to speak.
“Yes… the courts must—”
The words die halfway out of his mouth and his body stiffens. The hall grows colder.
When he speaks again, the voice that answers is not quite the same.
“Balance,” he says softly, “is weakness.”
The noble fey knights share glances at one another in quiet confusion, but none dare to question him.
Behind the throne, an invisible shadow moves. You see her then, standing just behind the seated king as though she had always been there. Invisible to the knights, a woman shaped from frost and grey mist, tall and terrible and impossibly still. A hand rests lightly on Jocham’s shoulder, fingers curled with gentle precision, the way a puppeteer might hold the strings of a marionette. She leans close to his ear and whispers something only he can hear.
Jocham shudders.
Inside the vision something shifts, and suddenly you are no longer standing in the hall.
Instead, you see what lies behind Jocham’s eyes—a dark, silent prison where his mind fights to stay his own. He stands there alone, breath ragged, bloodied clothes, a pair of bone-white swords drawn and ready for a fight.
“You were defeated,” he says hoarsely. “The Dreamwalkers ended your reign—I ended your reign.”
The Blood Queen smiles.
“You confuse defeat with delay.”
The crown on his head began to glow and he winced in pain.
“I ruled Winter when the world was young,” she murmurs, her voice spreading through the darkness like morning frost. “And when the end came for me, I refused it.”
The prison fractures like breaking glass and the vision shifts again.
The shouts of battle and carnival music mix in a maddening cacophony as dreamwalkers exchange spells and swords with dark fey. In the back of the room, you see a young Jackal behead a chimera as the remaining two heads snap at Cassius and Dirk Danger. Cassy heals someone on the ground behind them while Faerwyn launches a fireball at the Winter Crone and she bursts like a gout of steam.
The Blood Queen—in the guise of the Underworld Queen Persephone—stumbles and falls to her knees with an ancient dagger carved from a minotaur horn protruding from her chest. Standing before her is a younger Jocham wearing the mask of Lord Pride. He removes the winter crown from her as Dreamwalkers stand beside him, witnesses to the end of her reign.
“I will lead our people back to the world above,” he declared. “The Winter Court will live again in the dream.”
Her body trembles as the power leaves her, but even as she falls forward, she whispers something so soft that no one present can hear. Blood does not die.
The memory collapses.
You are back in the throne hall again, snow still drifting through the broken ceiling, blue fire still burning in the braziers. The Blood Queen stands behind Jocham as though she has always been there, her fingers resting on the crown now blazing with cold light.
“The Underworld Throne preserved Winter once,” she says softly.
Her gaze drifts outward, beyond the walls of the court, beyond the world itself. “But its power is bound by rules. Unbroken laws of the first sovereign further cemented by the meddling Grimm.”
“You freed Winter from those chains. Now I will free it from the great cycle.”~
Then the world tilts, and this vision takes hold.
You see ice pillars that rise like trees toward the ceiling of a frozen feasting hall. Snow drifts slowly through the broken roof, each flake falling with ephemeral patience, as though time itself has slowed to watch what happens here. Blue fires burn in braziers carved from crystal. The light is cold and dim.
At the far end of the hall, you remember a table where years prior the entire fey host had welcomed the Dreamwalkers as guests. In its place sits a throne of carved frost. Upon this newly built throne sits Jocham Von Raphael, King of the Winter Fey.
The winter crown rests on his brow, a circlet of blue and red memory crystals that gleam with a faint inner light. Before him kneel knights of the Winter Court, their pale faces turned upward, waiting for the commands of their lord.
One of them speaks carefully, the way courtiers do when the future hangs on the mood of a despot. “Your Majesty… the Summer Court has agreed to meet. If Spring and Autumn are restored, the balance of the seasons may finally return.”
For a moment, something mortal flickers across Jocham’s face. Relief, perhaps. Hope.
His hand tightens on the arm of the throne and he begins to speak.
“Yes… the courts must—”
The words die halfway out of his mouth and his body stiffens. The hall grows colder.
When he speaks again, the voice that answers is not quite the same.
“Balance,” he says softly, “is weakness.”
The noble fey knights share glances at one another in quiet confusion, but none dare to question him.
Behind the throne, an invisible shadow moves. You see her then, standing just behind the seated king as though she had always been there. Invisible to the knights, a woman shaped from frost and grey mist, tall and terrible and impossibly still. A hand rests lightly on Jocham’s shoulder, fingers curled with gentle precision, the way a puppeteer might hold the strings of a marionette. She leans close to his ear and whispers something only he can hear.
Jocham shudders.
Inside the vision something shifts, and suddenly you are no longer standing in the hall.
Instead, you see what lies behind Jocham’s eyes—a dark, silent prison where his mind fights to stay his own. He stands there alone, breath ragged, bloodied clothes, a pair of bone-white swords drawn and ready for a fight.
“You were defeated,” he says hoarsely. “The Dreamwalkers ended your reign—I ended your reign.”
The Blood Queen smiles.
“You confuse defeat with delay.”
The crown on his head began to glow and he winced in pain.
“I ruled Winter when the world was young,” she murmurs, her voice spreading through the darkness like morning frost. “And when the end came for me, I refused it.”
The prison fractures like breaking glass and the vision shifts again.
The shouts of battle and carnival music mix in a maddening cacophony as dreamwalkers exchange spells and swords with dark fey. In the back of the room, you see a young Jackal behead a chimera as the remaining two heads snap at Cassius and Dirk Danger. Cassy heals someone on the ground behind them while Faerwyn launches a fireball at the Winter Crone and she bursts like a gout of steam.
The Blood Queen—in the guise of the Underworld Queen Persephone—stumbles and falls to her knees with an ancient dagger carved from a minotaur horn protruding from her chest. Standing before her is a younger Jocham wearing the mask of Lord Pride. He removes the winter crown from her as Dreamwalkers stand beside him, witnesses to the end of her reign.
“I will lead our people back to the world above,” he declared. “The Winter Court will live again in the dream.”
Her body trembles as the power leaves her, but even as she falls forward, she whispers something so soft that no one present can hear. Blood does not die.
The memory collapses.
You are back in the throne hall again, snow still drifting through the broken ceiling, blue fire still burning in the braziers. The Blood Queen stands behind Jocham as though she has always been there, her fingers resting on the crown now blazing with cold light.
“The Underworld Throne preserved Winter once,” she says softly.
Her gaze drifts outward, beyond the walls of the court, beyond the world itself. “But its power is bound by rules. Unbroken laws of the first sovereign further cemented by the meddling Grimm.”
“You freed Winter from those chains. Now I will free it from the great cycle.”~
Your vision swims and you feel a calm.
You immediately recognize the ruined city from the first vision and can tell that maybe a third of it survived the tsunami of unformed dreaming. It seems the parts that remain are centered around a large archway made of the deepest obsidian stone--the Gate of Nifleholme and the Underworld beyond. You see several figures picking their way through what remains and you feel yourself descend as your aerial view narrows on a particular small group.
They seem to follow a path into some library or museum. Sorting through piles of destroyed books, shelves and various artifacts until deeper inside things are more intact. You notice this inner chamber has various iconography of a ruler of some sort, though the imagery has faded over the years and events. One image shows the ruler shaking hands with someone standing in front of a massive mountain whose peak rises far above the clouds. Another image depicts the lord on one side of an archway reverently receiving a person wrapped tightly in a shroud. The last noticeable image is of this ruler at a banquet of some sort sitting with what seems to be seven or eight people, each wearing a crown of rulership themselves.
You hear someone make a short gasping sound as your view turns to look at one of the survivors reverently picking up a book from a dais. One of several holding various assortment of artifacts and reliquaries. You cannot make out the exact shape of the objects outside the book but it pings a familiar design to some of the images on the walls.
As your vision begins to fade, you hear the person—barely audible and filled with pure devotion speak a word:
“...Dis Pater…”~
They seem to follow a path into some library or museum. Sorting through piles of destroyed books, shelves and various artifacts until deeper inside things are more intact. You notice this inner chamber has various iconography of a ruler of some sort, though the imagery has faded over the years and events. One image shows the ruler shaking hands with someone standing in front of a massive mountain whose peak rises far above the clouds. Another image depicts the lord on one side of an archway reverently receiving a person wrapped tightly in a shroud. The last noticeable image is of this ruler at a banquet of some sort sitting with what seems to be seven or eight people, each wearing a crown of rulership themselves.
You hear someone make a short gasping sound as your view turns to look at one of the survivors reverently picking up a book from a dais. One of several holding various assortment of artifacts and reliquaries. You cannot make out the exact shape of the objects outside the book but it pings a familiar design to some of the images on the walls.
As your vision begins to fade, you hear the person—barely audible and filled with pure devotion speak a word:
“...Dis Pater…”~
