Within the Dream, over ten thousand uncharted islands floated adrift, caught in churning tides of astral chaos.
Most islands spanned less than a mile in any given direction and were desolate places, devoid of all life. Yet even in these inhospitable remains, the debris and ruins hinted at a past—and the untimely demise of The Dream That Was.
On one such island, barely five hundred feet in diameter, lay the partial remains of a modest castle with French architectural influences. Its gravity and mass had begun to deteriorate long ago, tilting the structure fifteen degrees away from cosmic 'up.' Beneath a mostly collapsed gatehouse stood two figures, unfazed by the slant or the accompanying sense of vertigo.
The first figure wore rusted, patchwork armor, suggesting the role of a knight. The other appeared as a squire, draped in robes woven from nebulous shadows. Both donned Death Masks in the style of the Grimm Companion. However, the knight's mask was uniquely layered with cracked black lacquer, revealing hints of orichalcum's golden-yellow hue underneath. Few like it had ever been created. Behind this mask were eyes that had been shrouded in the void for over two centuries—eyes that had witnessed countless deaths, even before the great flood swept through the Dreaming.
Clasped in his gauntlet was Clarent, a blade rich in history and virtually confirming the wielder's identity. This was Mordrach the Usurper, an Amaranth of the Grimm Companion, a figure central to countless dark tales whispered across the Mundanian arm of the universe. Some stories named him Mordred, while others depicted him as a paradigm dark knight.
The squire was another Reaper—The Umbral, his apprentice. Committed to guarding his master, The Umbral exhibited an intensity as unyielding as it was silent.
Mordrach examined the hilt of his sword, its runes flickering dimly with a yellow aura that reacted to a small strip of ground where two meters of grass refused to yield amid the desolation. Each rune marked a moment when destiny had almost been his. As he contemplated the patch of grass and his weapon, his surface thoughts emerged.
They've even stolen my fate at Camlann. Is this punishment for questioning the Will of the Grimm? Is this to be my legacy? A banished prince without a birthright, a conqueror without a claim?
The Umbral appeared to sense his master's thoughts veering into darker corridors of the mind. He stood ready, his watchful eyes scanning the ever-shifting landscape. The air felt heavy with the weight of something unseen, something impending. They had arrived here chasing whispers of a blade so powerful it could rewrite fate itself—a weapon with the potential to restore lost legacies. But they were likely not alone in having heard the rumor.
Mordrach felt a whirlwind of conflicting emotions: dread and anticipation. Could such a blade mend a destiny so fractured?
Before these thoughts could fully materialize, the air grew unnaturally opaque with swirls of purple and red magic. Nightmares erupted from the mist—grotesque reflections of Mordrach’s deepest fears and regrets. Some of these horrors bore the faces of subjects he had once sought to rule; others wore his own visage, adorned in the regalia of the fallen King Uther.
The Umbral leapt into action, his form dissolving into streaks of shadow and light as he lunged at the nearest Nightmare. However, he was swiftly overwhelmed; his ethereal form scattered into fragmented shadows, unable to sustain cohesion against the onslaught.
Mordrach gripped Clarent tightly, his artifact sword now glowing with a bright yellow aura. With a battle cry, he swung the blade, severing the first Nightmare cleanly in half. The creature wailed as it dissipated into mist. But no sooner had it vanished than another Nightmare took its place, rising from the dark ground as if born from the shadows themselves.
Despite his considerable skill and the power of his sword, Mordrach found himself becoming ensnared. Chains of palpable dread, manifesting from the ether, began to wrap around his limbs, pulling him into an abyss that materialized beneath him. He struggled against these ethereal restraints, hacking at them with Clarent, but they seemed to regenerate faster than he could sever them.
With a final roar that echoed through the astral winds, Mordrach was consumed. A vortex of darkness formed around him, swallowing not just his physical form but the essence of his very being.
As he vanished, his final utterance dispersed into the winds: a whisper, an unanswered question, a destiny still unfulfilled. "Is this to be my legacy?"
In the aftermath, The Umbral existed in an ambiguous state—neither entirely here nor completely gone, just a wisp in the intricate weave of cosmic destiny. Like countless other threads in the universe, the fate of the apprentice remained uncertain.~
On one such island, barely five hundred feet in diameter, lay the partial remains of a modest castle with French architectural influences. Its gravity and mass had begun to deteriorate long ago, tilting the structure fifteen degrees away from cosmic 'up.' Beneath a mostly collapsed gatehouse stood two figures, unfazed by the slant or the accompanying sense of vertigo.
The first figure wore rusted, patchwork armor, suggesting the role of a knight. The other appeared as a squire, draped in robes woven from nebulous shadows. Both donned Death Masks in the style of the Grimm Companion. However, the knight's mask was uniquely layered with cracked black lacquer, revealing hints of orichalcum's golden-yellow hue underneath. Few like it had ever been created. Behind this mask were eyes that had been shrouded in the void for over two centuries—eyes that had witnessed countless deaths, even before the great flood swept through the Dreaming.
Clasped in his gauntlet was Clarent, a blade rich in history and virtually confirming the wielder's identity. This was Mordrach the Usurper, an Amaranth of the Grimm Companion, a figure central to countless dark tales whispered across the Mundanian arm of the universe. Some stories named him Mordred, while others depicted him as a paradigm dark knight.
The squire was another Reaper—The Umbral, his apprentice. Committed to guarding his master, The Umbral exhibited an intensity as unyielding as it was silent.
Mordrach examined the hilt of his sword, its runes flickering dimly with a yellow aura that reacted to a small strip of ground where two meters of grass refused to yield amid the desolation. Each rune marked a moment when destiny had almost been his. As he contemplated the patch of grass and his weapon, his surface thoughts emerged.
They've even stolen my fate at Camlann. Is this punishment for questioning the Will of the Grimm? Is this to be my legacy? A banished prince without a birthright, a conqueror without a claim?
The Umbral appeared to sense his master's thoughts veering into darker corridors of the mind. He stood ready, his watchful eyes scanning the ever-shifting landscape. The air felt heavy with the weight of something unseen, something impending. They had arrived here chasing whispers of a blade so powerful it could rewrite fate itself—a weapon with the potential to restore lost legacies. But they were likely not alone in having heard the rumor.
Mordrach felt a whirlwind of conflicting emotions: dread and anticipation. Could such a blade mend a destiny so fractured?
Before these thoughts could fully materialize, the air grew unnaturally opaque with swirls of purple and red magic. Nightmares erupted from the mist—grotesque reflections of Mordrach’s deepest fears and regrets. Some of these horrors bore the faces of subjects he had once sought to rule; others wore his own visage, adorned in the regalia of the fallen King Uther.
The Umbral leapt into action, his form dissolving into streaks of shadow and light as he lunged at the nearest Nightmare. However, he was swiftly overwhelmed; his ethereal form scattered into fragmented shadows, unable to sustain cohesion against the onslaught.
Mordrach gripped Clarent tightly, his artifact sword now glowing with a bright yellow aura. With a battle cry, he swung the blade, severing the first Nightmare cleanly in half. The creature wailed as it dissipated into mist. But no sooner had it vanished than another Nightmare took its place, rising from the dark ground as if born from the shadows themselves.
Despite his considerable skill and the power of his sword, Mordrach found himself becoming ensnared. Chains of palpable dread, manifesting from the ether, began to wrap around his limbs, pulling him into an abyss that materialized beneath him. He struggled against these ethereal restraints, hacking at them with Clarent, but they seemed to regenerate faster than he could sever them.
With a final roar that echoed through the astral winds, Mordrach was consumed. A vortex of darkness formed around him, swallowing not just his physical form but the essence of his very being.
As he vanished, his final utterance dispersed into the winds: a whisper, an unanswered question, a destiny still unfulfilled. "Is this to be my legacy?"
In the aftermath, The Umbral existed in an ambiguous state—neither entirely here nor completely gone, just a wisp in the intricate weave of cosmic destiny. Like countless other threads in the universe, the fate of the apprentice remained uncertain.~
Beyond the borders of the dreamt and the undreamt, an endless desert of pearl white sands stretched out in all directions beneath a violet overcast sky that softly rumbled.
From this monotonous expanse, twelve obelisks clawed their way into existence. The sky churned into storms while dust swirled in the air. You feel the coarse blast of sand against your skin, and as you squint, two more obelisks materialize, disrupting the established symmetry. Accompanied by a skyward roar, an electrical charge fractured the heavens, revealing the unsettling silhouette of a nameless entity lurking in the storm's shadow. The obelisks trembled, as if conscious of their existential dilemma.
From the celestial expanse, gods descended—an eclectic pantheon hailing from forgotten epochs and current realms. Their numbers reached fifteen before engaging the mysterious anomaly in a cacophonous battle of cosmic discord. You attempt to discern their identities, but the longer you gaze at their faces, the more elusive they become. Instead, you see allies, friends, and foes.
Inexplicably, amid the ancient stone and sand, a giant pocket watch materialized. Its hands whirled chaotically, untethered from the concept of time. Nearby, a tree sprouted, bearing fruit shaped like human hearts; its roots coiled like the tentacles of an octopus.
Within this surreal setting, a baseball diamond shimmered into existence, complete with spectral bases and ethereal players glowing in shades of red light. The pitcher, a divine figure adorned in funerary garb, wound up for a throw. As the ball sailed through the air, it burst into a kaleidoscope of feathers, each swaying to the whims of an invisible wind before vanishing into the ether.
Then, as abruptly as it had materialized, the vision collapsed. Gods, obelisks, and anomalies dissolved into nothing.~
From the celestial expanse, gods descended—an eclectic pantheon hailing from forgotten epochs and current realms. Their numbers reached fifteen before engaging the mysterious anomaly in a cacophonous battle of cosmic discord. You attempt to discern their identities, but the longer you gaze at their faces, the more elusive they become. Instead, you see allies, friends, and foes.
Inexplicably, amid the ancient stone and sand, a giant pocket watch materialized. Its hands whirled chaotically, untethered from the concept of time. Nearby, a tree sprouted, bearing fruit shaped like human hearts; its roots coiled like the tentacles of an octopus.
Within this surreal setting, a baseball diamond shimmered into existence, complete with spectral bases and ethereal players glowing in shades of red light. The pitcher, a divine figure adorned in funerary garb, wound up for a throw. As the ball sailed through the air, it burst into a kaleidoscope of feathers, each swaying to the whims of an invisible wind before vanishing into the ether.
Then, as abruptly as it had materialized, the vision collapsed. Gods, obelisks, and anomalies dissolved into nothing.~
Above the vast expanse of Croithir, the Ashen Lady stood sentinel.
The lady, although once a person long ago, was a colossal petrified ent, rooted atop the mesa at the city's heart. Her essence was intertwined with the settlement's protective magic and essential for it's continued existence. Her expansive roots, resembling gnarled yet inviting arms, held more secrets and tales than all the fey courts and the chattering politicians of the House of Lords combined. This place was formally known as the Ash Grove, but locals had dubbed it the Garden of Lost Whispers.
Below her mighty canopy, the Blind Fey moved with grace, going about their daily tasks in the garden. Adorned in muted earth tones accented with autumnal hues, they wore veils over their eyes. Yet their fey sight unveiled layers of reality unseen to most, guiding them as they cared for the grove.
This dawn, the garden's usual tranquility was replaced by tension. A revered moonshade chrysanthemum, representing the Ashen Lady's favor, had vanished. Quiet discussions, tinged with speculation and doubt, filled the air.
Among the garden's intricate paths, Iollan, known for his kindly voice, stumbled upon a startling scene near the reflecting pond. Caolán, a newcomer to the grove, held the missing Moonshade, its luminescence mixing irreversibly with their aura as they examined it, but were suddenly surprised by Iollan's appearance.
Whispers of mistrust and curiosity grew among the Fey. Yet Caolán stayed silent amidst the unfolding events, trusting the elders to uncover the truth.
By twilight, Elder Seren, her silvery hair neatly braided atop her head, approached Iollan near a waterfall's cascade. "Did you mean to frame Caolán with the Moonshade, challenging our trust?" she inquired, her tone heavy with sorrow.
Caught off guard, Iollan confessed, "Change unnerves me. I viewed him as the symbol of that change. Yet after today's display of faith, I am filled with doubt."
In a soft voice, Seren responded, "The Moonshade stands for honesty. But now, suspicion has cast a shadow over us all."
As the Fey pondered the situation, in the background, a lone root from the Ash tree twitched subtly. None present observed this movement. Was it a presage omen or trick of the soulforge vision?~
Below her mighty canopy, the Blind Fey moved with grace, going about their daily tasks in the garden. Adorned in muted earth tones accented with autumnal hues, they wore veils over their eyes. Yet their fey sight unveiled layers of reality unseen to most, guiding them as they cared for the grove.
This dawn, the garden's usual tranquility was replaced by tension. A revered moonshade chrysanthemum, representing the Ashen Lady's favor, had vanished. Quiet discussions, tinged with speculation and doubt, filled the air.
Among the garden's intricate paths, Iollan, known for his kindly voice, stumbled upon a startling scene near the reflecting pond. Caolán, a newcomer to the grove, held the missing Moonshade, its luminescence mixing irreversibly with their aura as they examined it, but were suddenly surprised by Iollan's appearance.
Whispers of mistrust and curiosity grew among the Fey. Yet Caolán stayed silent amidst the unfolding events, trusting the elders to uncover the truth.
By twilight, Elder Seren, her silvery hair neatly braided atop her head, approached Iollan near a waterfall's cascade. "Did you mean to frame Caolán with the Moonshade, challenging our trust?" she inquired, her tone heavy with sorrow.
Caught off guard, Iollan confessed, "Change unnerves me. I viewed him as the symbol of that change. Yet after today's display of faith, I am filled with doubt."
In a soft voice, Seren responded, "The Moonshade stands for honesty. But now, suspicion has cast a shadow over us all."
As the Fey pondered the situation, in the background, a lone root from the Ash tree twitched subtly. None present observed this movement. Was it a presage omen or trick of the soulforge vision?~
Your vision sweeps across a small frontier town.
A small number of roughly constructed buildings sit closely grouped together, representing a tiny bastion of civilization surrounded by unclaimed prairie on all sides.
As you move closer into the town, snippets of conversations and glimpses of life become more distinct. Although you can't discern specific words, an unmistakable air of desperation permeates the scene. Shop owners are seen packaging supplies, leaving them on their front porches. Miners in haste deliver ore to smiths, who in turn are smelting and processing it with urgency. Children are shooed inside buildings, with doors and shutters slamming shut behind them.
The buzz of activity comes to an abrupt halt at the sound of a nearby clock ringing out five times in a clear tone. As if on cue, everyone steps away from their tasks, retreating indoors or turning their gazes away from the main road slicing through the town's center.
A few moments of palpable tension give way to the sound of echoing footsteps against the silent backdrop of closed storefronts and shuttered windows. Your attention is drawn to a man in a wide-brimmed hat who makes his way to the street's midpoint. Sinister lines of shadow emanate from his eyes, creeping across his face. The man's own shadow seems animated, churning and bubbling in the light of the setting sun.
He scans the huddled residents, his expression cold. "Here's hoping your tribute measures up this time. We don't want a repeat of last time," he croaks, the threat in his voice thinly veiled. With a snap of his fingers, his shadow spreads, and shadowy husks materialize, beginning to collect the supplies left on the porches. Whispers of fear can be heard from those who come near these eerie entities, yet the townsfolk maintain a semblance of composure.
As the shadowy husks assemble behind the man, he gives the crowd one final nod, then turns away, the husks dutifully following in his wake.~
As you move closer into the town, snippets of conversations and glimpses of life become more distinct. Although you can't discern specific words, an unmistakable air of desperation permeates the scene. Shop owners are seen packaging supplies, leaving them on their front porches. Miners in haste deliver ore to smiths, who in turn are smelting and processing it with urgency. Children are shooed inside buildings, with doors and shutters slamming shut behind them.
The buzz of activity comes to an abrupt halt at the sound of a nearby clock ringing out five times in a clear tone. As if on cue, everyone steps away from their tasks, retreating indoors or turning their gazes away from the main road slicing through the town's center.
A few moments of palpable tension give way to the sound of echoing footsteps against the silent backdrop of closed storefronts and shuttered windows. Your attention is drawn to a man in a wide-brimmed hat who makes his way to the street's midpoint. Sinister lines of shadow emanate from his eyes, creeping across his face. The man's own shadow seems animated, churning and bubbling in the light of the setting sun.
He scans the huddled residents, his expression cold. "Here's hoping your tribute measures up this time. We don't want a repeat of last time," he croaks, the threat in his voice thinly veiled. With a snap of his fingers, his shadow spreads, and shadowy husks materialize, beginning to collect the supplies left on the porches. Whispers of fear can be heard from those who come near these eerie entities, yet the townsfolk maintain a semblance of composure.
As the shadowy husks assemble behind the man, he gives the crowd one final nod, then turns away, the husks dutifully following in his wake.~
Your senses are hammered with an almost oppressive darkness.
As you acclimate to the new surroundings, you can tell that you are following a small team of Technohaven Scouts being chased up a coastline. The sounds of claws scraping on the ground betray the otherwise silent approach of a number of predators quickly closing in.
The scout out front reaches up to her ear and screams into a receiver pinned to her chest. "That wall had better be ready to roll! We're coming in hot!" There is a small crackling that cuts through the sounds of pursuit as her coms come to life.
"They are, but you're still outside of the agreed-on defense perimeter," replies a voice dripping with anxiety.
"Start up the initialization, and we'll handle getting inside the walls."
"That's not how this is supposed to wor..."
"Just do it!"
With that command, the air is filled with the sounds of turbines spinning up. Lights start to spark mid-air like a number of fireflies just sprung into existence. The team picks up their pace to push their way through the manifesting wall creating itself in their path.
From behind the scout leader, the sound of shifting gravel pulls her attention. Illuminated by the forming wall, she sees a nightmare creature diving directly for her. She hits the deck, letting the beast pass overhead and slam headfirst into the hard light wall.
Cut off from the rest of her team, she looks around to take in her options. Retreat cut off, support team safe, enemies on the doorstep, options limited. She sighs deeply as she counts several nightmares closing in on her position.
"I hate this part," she says under her breath before reaching down to her coms. "Paladin Rivers engaging exo-frame. Keep the lights on for me, I'll be home soon."
She reaches across her body and connects a cord from her left shoulder down to her right hip. She then taps her lapel and tenses her body. The first nightmare lunges at her just as armored plates begin to spread out from her backpack. She raises her arm to block the hit just as the protective coating slides into place. The claws dig in, but she is able to hold steady.
At this time, two more nightmares move around to flank from the left. With a quick flick of her wrist, she produces a small port that shoots out a pulse of flame to drive back the nightmares. With one arm holding back an attack and the other defensively spraying flame, she can't defend against the creature that bounds overhead. It uses the newly formed wall to spring and latch itself onto her back. The weight of the creature drives her to one knee.
"Ok, you want to play rough? Let's play rough," she grunts through gritted teeth. A small engine extends from her back and bursts to life, burning the nightmare in the process. Wings form themselves from the armor, and she begins to lift off of the ground with the nightmare still clinging to her back.
With a burst of light, she takes off into the sky. On the way up, the nightmare claws against her back with little to no effect on the functionality of her suit. Tired of the extra weight, she goes into a tight barrel roll and throws it off. She watches as the nightmare falls hundreds of feet to the ground below.
As she redirects her focus to the horizon, you see various hard light walls springing up out of the ground, paired with timed explosions and sustained gunfire. From this elevated position, you observe the nightmare tendrils trying to engulf the islands of Loch Lodir and the well-orchestrated counter-assault devised to combat this type of alpha strike.
"This is Paladin Rivers. Everything's clear up here. Looks like that intel we got was good. Returning home now."~
The scout out front reaches up to her ear and screams into a receiver pinned to her chest. "That wall had better be ready to roll! We're coming in hot!" There is a small crackling that cuts through the sounds of pursuit as her coms come to life.
"They are, but you're still outside of the agreed-on defense perimeter," replies a voice dripping with anxiety.
"Start up the initialization, and we'll handle getting inside the walls."
"That's not how this is supposed to wor..."
"Just do it!"
With that command, the air is filled with the sounds of turbines spinning up. Lights start to spark mid-air like a number of fireflies just sprung into existence. The team picks up their pace to push their way through the manifesting wall creating itself in their path.
From behind the scout leader, the sound of shifting gravel pulls her attention. Illuminated by the forming wall, she sees a nightmare creature diving directly for her. She hits the deck, letting the beast pass overhead and slam headfirst into the hard light wall.
Cut off from the rest of her team, she looks around to take in her options. Retreat cut off, support team safe, enemies on the doorstep, options limited. She sighs deeply as she counts several nightmares closing in on her position.
"I hate this part," she says under her breath before reaching down to her coms. "Paladin Rivers engaging exo-frame. Keep the lights on for me, I'll be home soon."
She reaches across her body and connects a cord from her left shoulder down to her right hip. She then taps her lapel and tenses her body. The first nightmare lunges at her just as armored plates begin to spread out from her backpack. She raises her arm to block the hit just as the protective coating slides into place. The claws dig in, but she is able to hold steady.
At this time, two more nightmares move around to flank from the left. With a quick flick of her wrist, she produces a small port that shoots out a pulse of flame to drive back the nightmares. With one arm holding back an attack and the other defensively spraying flame, she can't defend against the creature that bounds overhead. It uses the newly formed wall to spring and latch itself onto her back. The weight of the creature drives her to one knee.
"Ok, you want to play rough? Let's play rough," she grunts through gritted teeth. A small engine extends from her back and bursts to life, burning the nightmare in the process. Wings form themselves from the armor, and she begins to lift off of the ground with the nightmare still clinging to her back.
With a burst of light, she takes off into the sky. On the way up, the nightmare claws against her back with little to no effect on the functionality of her suit. Tired of the extra weight, she goes into a tight barrel roll and throws it off. She watches as the nightmare falls hundreds of feet to the ground below.
As she redirects her focus to the horizon, you see various hard light walls springing up out of the ground, paired with timed explosions and sustained gunfire. From this elevated position, you observe the nightmare tendrils trying to engulf the islands of Loch Lodir and the well-orchestrated counter-assault devised to combat this type of alpha strike.
"This is Paladin Rivers. Everything's clear up here. Looks like that intel we got was good. Returning home now."~
The siege had begun, and the shadows at Loch Lodir's gates grew bolder.
And this is the story of a coin. This was no ordinary currency, but a relic from the Isinlands, a civilization swallowed and subsequently forgotten by history. Its faces depicted the shield crest of Mezzotar on one side, while the other captured the serene image of a dreamwalker at rest. The edges of the coin, though worn, shimmered with a forgotten magic, a vestige of power that the coin had obtained from someone, but it couldn't remember who.
The coin, possessing no will of its own, had memories of touch: the warmth of a palm, the roughness of a pouch, the cold loneliness of the ground. It remembered the weight of decisions it bore witness to—heads or tails, life or death, to chase a dream or surrender to despair.
Bria, a market vendor with wise eyes once held the coin. To her, it was a trinket, a novelty she used to trade for a loaf of bread. Lorne, the baker, admired its iridescence and unknowingly became its next steward. The coin felt the familiar pulse of human life and, in Lorne's pocket, experienced the rhythm of Loch Lodir during a siege: hurried footsteps, hushed whispers, and the ominous undercurrent of fear.
Its next guardian was Erys, a nimble-fingered pickpocket. The coin recognized her youthful vigor, a stark contrast to the seasoned hands of those before. It pulsed warmly, in resonance with her heart. And then, the world turned upside down.
The coin felt the rush of air, the grip of talons, and the vertiginous height as a winged nightmare demon snatched Erys from the ground. The coin's luminescence intensified in the creature’s presence. From its vantage point in Erys's clutched fist, the city below became a mosaic of darkness, fire, and fleeting hope.
As the dark wings of the nightmare demon carried Erys away, leaving the city's silhouette shrinking below, the coin might have considered its impossible chances of being there. But it was still only a coin, and yet its journey was far from over. ~
The coin, possessing no will of its own, had memories of touch: the warmth of a palm, the roughness of a pouch, the cold loneliness of the ground. It remembered the weight of decisions it bore witness to—heads or tails, life or death, to chase a dream or surrender to despair.
Bria, a market vendor with wise eyes once held the coin. To her, it was a trinket, a novelty she used to trade for a loaf of bread. Lorne, the baker, admired its iridescence and unknowingly became its next steward. The coin felt the familiar pulse of human life and, in Lorne's pocket, experienced the rhythm of Loch Lodir during a siege: hurried footsteps, hushed whispers, and the ominous undercurrent of fear.
Its next guardian was Erys, a nimble-fingered pickpocket. The coin recognized her youthful vigor, a stark contrast to the seasoned hands of those before. It pulsed warmly, in resonance with her heart. And then, the world turned upside down.
The coin felt the rush of air, the grip of talons, and the vertiginous height as a winged nightmare demon snatched Erys from the ground. The coin's luminescence intensified in the creature’s presence. From its vantage point in Erys's clutched fist, the city below became a mosaic of darkness, fire, and fleeting hope.
As the dark wings of the nightmare demon carried Erys away, leaving the city's silhouette shrinking below, the coin might have considered its impossible chances of being there. But it was still only a coin, and yet its journey was far from over. ~