1095th Year of the Great Emrosian Empire
Night of the Moon of the Great Hunt (Late
Summer)
The Ebon Peaks
The black, stone tower pierced the
thick clouds that hung about the Ebon Peaks. Atop the tower’s flat roof, a
hatch door flung open. The gaunt, dark-robed man crawled out into the bright
moonlight. The moons were full, hanging low in the dark sky. The bright crimson
of the Hunter shone around the edges of the Prey’s deep cerulean. The man
closed the door beneath him, his white beard fluttering from his cowl in the
brisk midnight breeze. He looked to the eclipsing moons, the Moon of the Great
Hunt, a rare occurrence indeed. He stood at the center of the tower’s roof,
staring toward the moons, arms outstretched, spectral moonlight beaming onto
his pale, withered face.
He mumbled to himself, head raised
to the sky, as the winds began to swirl. Faster, they continued to gain speed.
Faster, swirling about the man. Faster, as they began to form a cyclone.
Faster, and the man was lifted from the platform, spinning within the
whirlwinds. He closed his eyes, and the visions began, flashing in rapid
succession through his mind.
To the northwest, a man on his
deathbed. He spun within the winds. Northeast, a boy surviving alone in the
forest. His spiraling continued within the storm. Southeast, rebellion.
Southwest, death, regrets, revenge, and plotting. The surge of images began to
batter his mind more and more rapidly, glimpses of events from anywhere in the
world, past, present, and future. Betrayal. An exodus. An old world made anew.
A civilization brought to ruin. The scenes were too many, too scattered, too
fast to make sense of. The seer’s head began to pound, as if he were drowning
in a sea of overwhelming, incomplete bits of information. Not yet, there
must be more, I must find a connection, I must make sense of this, any of this.
Soldiers, flames, uprisings, a world torn asunder. Blood began to trickle from
the man’s clenched eyelids, as his teeth ground at the immense pressure that
weighed down on him. Where? A throne, its occupant but a silhouette. A
man, crippled in torturous pain, light flowing from his body. Powers the world
could neither understand nor handle, seeping away.
The seer came to a sudden halt
facing westward. Slowly, the winds dissipated, the man gently lowered back to
the stone platform. Eyes still held tightly shut. Tears of blood ran down his
ghostly face. The visions slowed now, more concentrated. Glimpses of the past,
hints at the future. There was something important in all of this. Ah, but
what is it? And what is the link?
