[Vision] The Song

[MALUKOR 105]

 

 

[As per its nature, only characters with an application allowing for the scrying of prophecies such as Seer, Vivication, Naztharek and so on can observe the contents of this post IC.]

 

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This vision is less coherent. The world about you seems somewhat fuzzy, and there’s a slight delay between your actions and the sound that follows.

 

You find yourself squatting above a seemingly infinite hole in a stone room. You extend a hand, waving it over the black beneath. You call out, your own voice alarming you for its grating hoarseness - and then again, as it echoes back at you.

 

“Hello?”

 

It doesn’t respond. You don’t actually know something exists down there, but you feel you do. You can feel it watching.

You study your hand. You find rotting flesh, mould covering your fingernails and gray skin flaking off your withered, pale hands. You murmur something impossible - a contradiction in reality, something that you, the descendant cannot begin to understand - and your hand repairs itself with a weak golden flicker.

The air is cold. The world around you is utterly black, lit only by sputtering blue flames on the walls. You seem to be in some sort of underground structure, ancient murals decorating the walls; a crowned warrior, leading men into a Temple, a great slaughter, an unfathomable blasphemy..

You squeeze your eyes shut. A sharp pain runs through your head.

You turn about, looking for an exit, but the stairs leading upwards are barred. The doors are shut.

Your gaze drifts back to the hole.

It’s oddly inviting. Whatever is watching you is beckoning you. You can almost see the wispy hair, the beckoning finger, the robes, the Absence..

 

“Are you dreaming again, Prince?”

 

A young voice calls out - stern, and somewhat exasperated.

 

Her.

 

And though you do not know who she is, in that moment, you forget all things save hatred. Some sins can only be answered by the knife.

 

Your hand itches to move, to grasp the hilt of your sword - to avenge your honour! An inexplicable passion moves you, an ancient madness centuries old, a boundless fury that would force you to your feet, to withdraw your sword, to call upon your Divinity..

 

Were it not for the song.

 

The girl murmurs. The impossible sound fills the air, the transcendent notes, that - at once - makes your hair stand on end, makes your blood run cold, yet acts as a lullaby; acts as all things, as sorrow, hatred, fear, understanding..

 

You feel yourself swaying. The gaping hole beckons still, though it seems a distant thing. The song, the drowsiness seems to be all there is to the world..

 

Soft hands draw over your eyes, cutting off all vision. You can feel them pressing against your sockets,, taste small pieces of what were your eyes, smell the blood in the air..

 

“No more dreaming, GOD.”

 

At once a command. At once a truth.

 

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