User:Reene/Visions

Event Prediction

Your inner sight focuses on the image of two Elves. Both Elves are ancient beyond description and wear silk robes dyed crimson, charcoal and azure. Only with great effort can you distinguish between the two of them; noting the subtle differences on how they hold their jaw, the different patterns of age lines that run like canyons across their faces. The figures begin to swirl around you, floating in the air as though by telekinesis. Their circular flight gains more speed, until you are unable to keep track of which is which.

Suddenly, a terrible pain rips through your back, bringing you to your knees! The two Elves slow their cycle and stop again in front of you. One holds in his right hand a jagged, bloody knife, while the other looks down on you in sadness, empty-handed. In the haze of pain and as the vision deconstructs around you, you are unable to tell which Elf it was that held the knife.

---

As your vision clears you see an Elf lecturing a group of students, gesticulating wildly at a variety of star charts and divination tools. A cracked and bloodied sandstone bowl lies next to an unconscious and bleeding student. A fierce growl comes from the east, followed by the sound of breaking glass and a muffled cry.

---

Your vision darkens, barely revealing a small room dominated by an ornate deobar writing desk. Thick curtains are drawn across the only window, leaving a lamp perched on one corner of the desk to throw fitful light on the scene. A slender man sits at the desk while an unnaturally bulging form stands at the doorway, both little more than silhouettes in the gloom.

The man in the doorway tosses something onto the desk, where it lands with a metallic thud. He croaks out in a guttural voice, "What now?"

Your point of view shifts to look down upon the object, revealing a leather-bound tome. The blade of a belt knife sticks out from underneath, pinned to the desk by the book's weight. The slender man gently traces a slender finger across a sigil of sharp angles that marks its cover. "Now," the word escapes in a raspy exhalation. He pauses for another moment and when he speaks again, his voice is strong and grim, "Now we await the triumphant."

---

Violent winds howl in your ears, not quite obscuring a multitude of distant moans and screams. Your vision slowly comes into focus, revealing three figures facing each other, weapons drawn, amidst a swirling crimson dust storm. To your left is a young Human man, wielding a curved silver dagger and covered by a dark overcoat. To your right is an Adan'f, holding a mattock and wearing a crude hauberk. Directly across from you is an elderly Halfling woman, in a blood-stained white robe and tensely gripping an oaken cudgel.

A blast of ruddy sand momentarily obscures your vision, but not the clash of weapons. Within a second the figures have turned on each other with murderous intent. Their three-way melee continues unabated as the storm rises around them, consuming everything with its stinging grit.

---

From amid the infinite vistas of the Plane of Probability, you dredge up a simple pastoral scene. A cottage sits at the center of a narrow valley, surrounded on all sides by a sprawling vegetable farm. A small brook winds its way along one side of the valley, receding into a sparse forest at the edge of the farm.

Small figures gather opposite of each other on the lips of the valley, each indistinct against the strangely crimson hue of the sun. Soon two opposing armies have gathered and bolts of magic, both sacred and profane, fly between them. The cottage door opens from the inside and out steps a short Human male, elderly but stepping vigorously amongst his vegetables. The old man pays the war waged above him no mind at all. Slinging a hoe across his shoulder, he sets his eyes to care for the harvest.

---

As your vision clears you see a child's doll dressed in a hooded scarlet robe. The doll lies face down in the mud. You lift the doll carefully, cleaning mud from the back of the robe. You turn over the doll and discover a skeletal face staring back. The face seems to smile at you as the doll fades away in your hand, and your vision returns to normal.

---

The hum of energy fills the air around you. Curious, you turn in an attempt to pinpoint its source. A phantasmal apparition appears in the air before you: massive towers rising high into the air surrounding a central domed structure. The image draws in upon the dome as if you were moving closer to it, bringing its details into clarity. You pass through walls, ascend stairs and traverse great corridors before at last arriving before a massive cambrinth orb. An unknown soft voice whispers, "Its powers shall soon be tested. Smile upon us in the troubled times ahead, Truffenyi." A breeze scatters the wispy image, leaving nothing in its wake.

---

Howling winds blow past you, churning up an endless cloud of stinging, red sand. Partially obscured in the sand storm, you see wave upon wave of undead monstrosities throw themselves at a phalanx of brightly armored men. Far removed from the carnage, two Humans look down from a rise. One is barely in his twenties and hidden by a long coat one size too large. The young Human clutches a curved, silver knife at his side so tightly that his knuckles have gone white. The other Human is short and elderly, wearing homespun clothes, carrying a farmer's hoe casually slung across his shoulder.

The younger man says, "It doesn't matter who wins."

The Old Man says, "Immediately? No, I suppose not. But the world will be better off one way more than the other."

"We're going to die! The Great Work is going to end with us."

The Old Man chuckles and says, not unkindly, "Heads, you lose; tails, you lose. Wasn't that the point all along?"

---

You see a gigantic granite cliff towering in the pre-dawn gloom. The cliff is nearly sheer, interrupted only by deep gouges and blade-like protrusions. Darkness obscures the base of the cliff, while the first rays of morning shine above its crown. A young Human slowly climbs the face of the cliff, using nothing other than a curved silver knife as an impromptu pick.

The young Human pauses for breath within the base of a narrow gouge. He assesses the rest of his climb, only to lock eyes with an elderly Human who now looks down at him from over the ledge. The young Human cups his hands over his mouth and calls out, "Could you help me?"

The Old Man says, "Sure." He rubs his mouth, then points at the knife, "You know what they say about a man that only owns a hammer?"

A string of Gamgweth profanity echoes back in reply. The Old Man shrugs and walks away.

---

Your vision focuses on a lanky Human male, leaning with both hands upon a balcony rail and staring up at Xibar.

A shadow detaches itself from the gloom behind him, revealing a feminine Elf.

The woman says, "He is an idiot, unworthy to wield Kigot's knife and you are of an even worse order for following him."

The man says, "And hello to you too."

"What was he thinking? The signs were not that obscure!"

"The hound thinks he's figured it all out. Though I wonder."

"What?"

"Did you know that the Bards can see things? Glimpses of different Philosophers over the century. The Moon Mages have visions about a young Necromancer with a knife and a wise old man."

"I..."

"Feeling a little exposed?"

"He is not the triumphant!"

"Someone will be and not either of us. The games are over, dear. Draw your knife or throw it down."

---

A crimson design etches across the air in front of you. Its origins are foreign, but a powerful desire accompanies it: it means everything you want, every possibility realized.

"You're forgetting something."

You stand in front of an iron table, scalpel in hand. Lying on the table is a half-naked Elf, unbound yet seemingly paralyzed. She stares up at you with wide, tear-brimmed eyes, while her breaths are accompanied with gasping, plaintive whines. Standing opposite of you is an elderly Human man in homespun clothes.

The Old Man says, "Glory. Immortality. Transcendence. Every promise that has been made is true. It's all hidden inside there," he looks down at the captive Elf, "Waiting for you to dig it out."

He returns a flat, expressionless gaze to you, "The moral dilemma isn't that necromancy demands a terrible price, but that you aren't the one that pays it. Are you worth her life?"

---

You see a man of ashen grey complexion standing on a featureless plane. He is hairless and nude, his skin profoundly bruised and burnt. A black aura surrounds him, all sharp lines and jagged edges, except for his head: as it inches upward, the darkness gives way to a crown of braided sunlight.

Above and surrounding the figure is a semi-circle of creatures, vaguely Human shaped but made out of fire and sunlight. Some bob up and down to the beat of incandescent wings, others are merely suspended in defiance to gravity. Manacles bind their limbs and trail earthen brown tethers that connect to the plane below them, leaving them perhaps a few more feet of slack.

One of the fire creatures attempts to raise a blinding sword, but does not have enough slack to bring it above its head. The grey man smirks, but closes his eyes and lowers his head. He walks the distance between him and the creatures, then sits down amongst the tethers.

---

A massive shadow speeds across overhead, drawing your attention upward. Great sheets of metal cover a massive, winged beast as it effortlessly glides through the air. It turns its great head in your direction, opens its mouth and releases a tremendous roar that makes the very ground you stand upon quake. In the span of a blink, the creature is gone, leaving you to wonder if it ever existed at all.

---

The broken puppet of an Elven girl dances on a tangle of strings. Looming above the doll is the visage of a hideous beast, pulling at the strings that control the figure and making it dance to and fro. A bright red light looms at the heart of the figurine as if from a tainted gem, seeming to corrupt the very air around it. Wraiths and skeletons join in with the macabre dance, the vision becoming nearly maddening before stopping.

---

A pair of dead, unblinking eyes stares hungrily at you, boring their way straight into your very being. The scream of something malevolent echoes around you, and a withered grey hand reaches toward you to tear at your soul. Overhead, the sky is slowly blanketed with soot-like clouds, and you look up to see the darkness spreading all around you. As the vision leaves you, a bit of a headache and an odd sense of detachment lingers for a brief moment.

---

A bell tolls in the distance, drawing your attention. Curiously, you're aware of no such bells in that direction. Carried by the speed of your dream-like state, a tower soon rises up upon the horizon. Armored guards stand in formations, defensively surrounding the structure. A voice calls down from above, "We will hold this ground, or we will die trying! If your fallen comrades rise up beside you, do not hesitate to slay them for the good of us all!" The vision fades, leaving only a lingering echo of the ringing bell.

---

You find yourself staring down the edge of a precipice, which fades into blackness far before the bottom is visible. A cold wind carrying wisps of red-tinged necromantic taint caresses your back, as if encouraging you to jump. Somewhere distant, your sanity screams at you to run, but you abandon all caution and fling yourself over the edge. Clawed hands reach out of the darkness to eagerly grab you, and you awaken just as they drag you down into the abyss.

---

A crimson and chartreuse blob hangs suspended in the air, seemingly composed of coagulated blood and pus woven into one vile mass. Suddenly, a wave of shimmering water surges from below. The goo throbs violently and lashes out with stringy pseudopods, but eventually diffuses in the water, rendered inert.

---

A cold sense of apathy takes hold as you find yourself walking with heavy steps through darkened halls and finally into a dusty chamber. You latch the door and turn to a S'Kra Mur convulsing in a pool of blood, parts of her black scales burnt and bleeding from a large spiral branded onto her body. Orange eyes filled with a mixture of agony and defiance fix on you, and she hisses through chattering fangs, "Thisss insssolencsse will..." A wet slash abruptly silences the woman before her head rolls toward the base of an ornate pedestal.

---

Out of nowhere, a skeletal claw rakes across your field of vision, nearly taking your nose with it! Reeling away from the strike and turning to face your assailant, you find a middle-age Human with ash-blond hair glowering darkly at you. An army of animated corpses in various states of decay ambles around and behind the figure. Her cold voice sneers, "You cannot fathom the powers blocking your path, mortal." A blinding flash of light explodes from her being, forcing you to avert your gaze. Looking back when the light dims, all traces of the figure and army are gone.

Global

Buzzing sound, somewhere between a pipe organ and a seizure, erupts within your head. Your sight fades to red as the sound reaches an agonizing climax, then resolves into a distant scene.

Rain comes down in a heavy downpour upon a forest track. The Undead march down the winding trail in a tight column, heads locked forward in an unintended parody of a military parade. An elderly Human man sits on a large rock and under the canopy of a tree a scant few feet off the road, a garden hoe propped unceremoniously against the tree. He watches the undead pass by with a bemused expression.

Roisaen seem to pass uneventfully, until a middle-aged woman appears within the column. She spots the man and comes to a sudden stop, causing a confused jostling to ripple up the line.

Lyras says, "You."

The Old Man shrugs and replies, "Me."

"What are you?"

"I'm a farmer. I grow things."

"Why are you here?"

"Trying to stay out of the storm, miss."

"Bow."

"If I did that, I wouldn't be able to get back up again." A pause. "Joints, you understand."

The Old Man says, "Always interesting to see travelers. Not many people walk down this road."

Lyras asks, "There are others?"

"Someone had to blaze the trail we're on. Not very often you see a real human being on it, though. Mostly used by animals these days."

"Enough! You will tell me why you are spying on me or I will wring it from your corpse!"

The Old Man lets out an exaggerated breath. "The metaphors not doing it for you? Ya know, between you and me, I'm not really sure why I'm out here. But I have a good guess."

Lyras stares mutely at the Old Man until he continues, "Everybody gets one, even you."

The Old Man says, "You could've made it, you know. That Descent of yours was a little weird, but you managed to hold onto enough. You could've had eternal life if you wanted something so modest. But that was all a little too abstract for miss Lyras. You wanted to hurt people. You wanted them to scream for every slight, and a corpse for every bruise.

"Now, I'm not one to judge. Bloody revenge is a perfectly Human behavior, we even got gods for that sort of thing. Just," he waves his left arm vaguely through the air, sweeping over the entire visible column of undead, "Maybe things have gotten a tiny bit out of hand?

"Okay, sure, third incarnation of a demon hell-bent on cracking the plane open like a walnut. That's bad, but there's still a bit of you left in there. Enough, anyway, that you still have some choice in the matter. This doesn't need to end this way, if you don't want it to."

Lyras says, spitting out the word, "Redemption."

The Old Man grabs hold of his hoe and carefully tosses it toward Lyras, where it lands in the mud at her feet. He says, "No, redemption isn't in the cards. You aren't walking out of this with anything resembling a soul. But a soul isn't everything, and there's other states of being to explore, if you want to."

Lyras gazes down at the hoe, her flat affect betraying none of her thoughts. She bends down to grab it, weighs it in her hand... and then watches impassively as it blackens and turns to ash.

A violent howl echoes through the woods, perhaps the sound a wolf hears when he dreams of howling. Unbidden thoughts of violence, vengeance and the hunt ride across the primal howl, causing even the undead to quail. Lyras turns toward the east, leaving the Old Man at her back.

The Old Man says, "Pity, that was a good hoe. Ah well. No regrets, eh?"

Lyras turns back sharply, but the Old Man had already left.

The proto-wolf howls again, shaking the very earth Lyras stands on and causing your skull to buzz with sound and vibration. The visionary experience fades along with the sound, leaving you with a deep headache.

---

You have a fleeting thought about the Crossing. Inexplicably, this causes the vessels behind your eyes to pulse painfully. The coppery smell of blood drifts into your nostrils, and the feeling of cold, naked metal caresses your hand.

---

Your heart takes on a slow, heavy beat. Each pulse causes blood to thump through your ears, creating a strange, bass march and a rapid headache.

The unnatural blood pressure quickly builds until your vision begins to cloud and fail. In the darkness you see a middle-aged Human woman walking alone in a verdant forest, each step in time with the pounding of your heart. She is surrounded by a terrible aura that seems to rip and tear at the air around her: there is no visible effect on the wildlife, yet the concept of fundamental destruction lodges firmly in your mind.

A sharp whistle pierces the air, followed by Lyras staggering and roaring out like a beast! Two arrows are now lodged her chest: one with an ivory shaft and covered with burning silver light, the other an unworked oaken shaft surrounded by the light of the sun. Lyras screams and claws at the arrows, but does not fall.

Another arrow is loosed from the distance, this time taking Lyras in the back. The third arrow is also oaken, well crafted and slick with poison. There is no more screaming after the arrow sinks in: Lyras collapses upon the grass and goes still.

The third arrow, however, is not finished. Poison drips from the shaft and onto the ground, instantly blackening it. The corruption of the forest grows rapidly, turning the grass into dust and the trees into lifeless, hollow husks. Within moments, Lyras's broken body is the only thing to be seen in a vast, unnatural desert. Your vision fades as wind cries, diminished and profaned.

Personal

Your vision blurs, shapes melting into one another around you. The surrounding voices merge into an indecipherable cacophany that sets your ears ringing.

Colors drain from the landscape, shades of grey melding together and shifting against one another until they resemble a finely woven fabric. You try to sort through it with your eyes, but each thread you follow moves from your field of vision before you can reach its terminus.

The pattern undulates before you, just beyond your reach. Shapes form within the taut weave, rolling close to you before fading into the imagined loom. You try to identify each before it disappears: a triangle, a single leaf of clover, a trident, three moons rising and setting in rapid succession, a triskelion. A theme emerges among the spiraling symbols; at no time can you see the entire image before it fades -- one or more components are out of view.

A sense of being incomplete washes over you. You instinctively reach for the symbols to correct them. As your hand moves toward the pattern it shatters as if glass, brilliant spots of light burst searingly behind your eyes. The threads fall apart, disintegrating among a riotous clamor of voices that fuse to sound like hawks screeching in anger.

---

Your vision blurs, your surroundings grow dim as if you were viewing them through a thick haze of smoke. The sounds around you begin to merge, sliding into one another until they build into a raucous and constant ringing in your ears. The horizon slips from view and you cannot focus on a single point.

The haze thickens around you, your senses swim as the scent of woodsmoke washes over you. The air grows warm and it becomes difficult to breathe. You cough and try to turn your head, seeking clearer air, but your body will not respond the way you want it to.

White-hot pain explodes within your head and your field of vision is suddenly cut in half. Wetness trails down your cheek from the remains of your eye. The air around you grows hotter, with ragged breaths you pull the searing air into your tortured lungs. Your brain screams in confusion as you try to sort out the source of your torment and find nothing.

The roiling smoke clears just enough to make out a hazy tableau. The slender silhouette of a woman stands before a large easel draped with a heavy canvas. Instead of a paintbrush, she holds in her hand a long feather quill. On the canvas is an elaborately detailed spiderweb done in deep scarlet. There are three ragged gaps in the otherwise elegant pattern. She studies the picture with intense concentration, oblivious to her tortured audience.

After several long moments of contemplation she goes back to work on completing the picture, but finds her quill dry. She searches fruitlessly for a palette. Finding none, she sighs and turns toward you. You cannot make out her features other than delicately pointed ears. Over her heart is a deep wound that does not heal. She dips the quill in the rivulet of blood running from it and returns to her work, humming softly as she tries to complete the pattern with her own life's blood.

The choking haze closes in, obscuring the details forever and stealing your breath. Your spine feels like its cracking as you arch in renewed agony. Bonerattling coughs wrack your frame and you beg for air, the heavy woodsmoke thickening with the cloying scent of burning flesh. The heat grows unbearable and you can feel your skin scorch, blisters erupting along your flesh as you find yourself suddenly engulfed in flames.

---

A feeling like a band of iron encircles your chest, squeezing steadily. As it closes tighter and tighter you find it impossible to take a deep breath. A sense of panic builds as your air hunger rises. Your eyes tear up and your vision blurs as you teeter on the brink of unconsciousness.

A grey haze fills your field of vision, obscuring the details of your surroundings and tamping down the ambient light so that you lose all sense of direction. A presence moves past you, a dense mist that skims your perception.

Images form in front of you, the details coalescing just long enough for you to pick out one or two before they dissolve. A gleaming trident, a gladiolus with tattered petals, a single white rose dipped in blood, a lotus spinning madly across the surface of a deep green pool, they loom and fade as you hear the sound of an infant crying in the distance.

A tree burns to ash before your eyes, the glowing coals scattering before a gust of wind and winking out along a well-traveled road. The infant's cry turns to the shrieking cry of a hawk. Out of the murkiness a red-eyed raven suddenly looms in front of you. Cawing raucously it flings itself at your face, the wings beat at your face as the talons tear for your eyes, as if preventing you from seeing the rest of the tableau.

An ethereal wind buffets you, pushing the haze back and you find you can finally take a deep breath. A sense of frustration can be felt as the images waver, incomplete and too weak to sustain themselves they dissipate as your surroundings return to view.

---

Your surroundings begin to move in slow motion, creeping along while your breath catches and your heart races. The sounds in your ears slow and distort to drawn out moans and buzzing. Your field of vision darkens to an amorphous grey haze.

The distant cry of a gull reaches your ears. You try to orient your senses to its direction and a gust of wind hits your face, bringing with it an icy blast of sea spray. The saltwater covers your face and the ground beneath you rolls, as if you were on the deck of a boat.

Boistorous voices sound all about you, shadowy figures hustling about as they hurry to their tasks. Creaking wood and the snapping of cables underscore the flapping of heavy canvas. Harsh laughter punctuates the excited voices, the seafarer's patois only allowing an occasional word or phrase to be picked out among the melange of languages and guttural voices. "The swan will eat the lotus." "Two for the Prince!" "The digger is in danger!" "...note in parts..."

A flash of lightning sears the sky, highlighting the roiling grey sky and illuminating the ethereal tableau. You find yourself aboard a ship navigating a stormy sea. The turgid air is hard to breathe, heavy with the impending storm. The deck cants crazily beneath you as the waves crest and crash along the hull. You turn your attention toward the quarterdeck, where a shadowy figure effortlessly turns the wheel despite the gale, long hair whipping out in a black curtain behind them.

You try to make out the details of the fearless pilot, but the sihlouette is too far away. Before you can try to move closer, an enormous wave washes over the bow, the magnificent force of water sweeps you across the deck and into the icy deep. You struggle in your sodden clothes, trying to stay above the surface. Choking as the waves slap your face, your tortured lungs draw in icy saltwater as you try to find some purchase.

Exhausted you slip beneath the surface, your consciousness drifting as your breath fades. You limply sink toward the utter blackness of the deep, unable to change your fate. Murky water swirls around you, forming images that dissipate as quickly as they form, parading atop one another in a chaotic tumble of grey and dark. The dark presses in on you as you try to remember them all.

A castle tumbling into a pile of rock. The pile pushes upward, becoming a mountain. The mountain dissolves and the swirling grey becomes three galloping horses. The horses explode into mist and become a flutter banner bearing a scythe. The banner shreds and a ship bursts through the remains. The ship shatters against a cliff and a three keys float by. As the last of your life ebbs a heron tosses back a small fish and bobs its head as if laughing as you sink into black silence.

The silence breaks with a rush like the surf pounding the shore. The sound eventually seperates itself back into the everyday sounds that normally surround you. Your mind screams as your lungs draw in a breath of fresh air. You open your eyes to find that the world is precisely as it has been.

---

A vague ringing in your ears builds, what begins as an annoying buzz crescendos to steady shriek which rocks your senses and drowns out your surroundings. Your eyes tear and a grey haze crawls over your field of vision, an opaque gauze filling your sight like an empty canvas.

The smell of burning wood reaches you as a roiling cloud of dark grey smoke pours out in front of you. You follow it with your eyes to its source and view a roaring fire within a mammoth fireplace. Before the hearth, the warm glow of the fire is a large sumptuous fur rug. Strewn casually over the thick pelt are white rose petals and black feathers. Atop the flaming logs are the rapidly charring remains of three leather-bound books with gilded spines.

A young Elven girl dressed in a simple robe glides into your field of vision. Noticing the books in the fire she cries out in distress. She grabs a poker and tries to salvage the volumes from the blaze. The first crumbles to fine black ash, mere remnants remain. The second falls forward, splayed open you see fine Ilithic script filling the smoldering pages. The third tumbles onto the rug, falling open and being caught by a small breeze. Blank pages flip past, scorch marks marring the pages.

You lean forward, trying to make out any additional details on the blank journal. A distant roaring reaches your ears and you glance up just in time to see the flames in the fireplace leap skyward and then out -- directly toward you in a maelstrom of searing heat and toxic gas. You cry out and try feebly to defend yourself from the firestorm ...

The flames lick greedily at your clothing, your nerves scream in agony as the sickly sweet smell of your own burning flesh chokes your senses. With your last lucid thoughts you see a bridal bouquet, standing out in stark relief against the raging inferno. Tied with a shimmering purple ribbon is a single white rose, a long-stemmed gladiolus and a lotus in full bloom. The flowers ignite and are consumed within seconds, a harsh whisper fills your ears just before your senses leave you ...

The voice brushes your ear, "There is no fate!" Laughing it trails off, leaving you to your own design.

---

Without warning, blackness suddenly takes you, your sight leaving you in a muddled haze of nothing. Out in the distance, you can make out... something, and you know with a sinking feeling that it's staring straight at you. A giant, clawed hand reaches out for you, clawing at your very soul. Suddenly, everything stops, and you find yourself staring upward, unhurt but with a feeling of trepidation.

Caelumia suddenly slumps to the ground, her eyes shutting tightly. After several long moments, she blinks a few times, looking dazed.

As you look at those about you, their faces look sunken in, as if none of them have eaten for several weeks. As Tyler gazes at you, his face is replaced with that of a macabre skull, his hands skeletal with only bits of tendon and rotting flesh clinging to them. You blink a few times, and they return to normal.

Caelumia suddenly glances at you, then blinks a few times.

Your eyes glaze over and you feel as if you've been plunged underwater, your breath choking you as you struggle for air. Your mind feels drenched in a wretched, oozing taint, pouring along you and soaking into your skin. As you struggle, you grasp something, clinging onto it as an anchor, when you realize that it's a wretched creature of undeath and the source of your torment, and it reaches for your throat. You black out, the vision fading into darkness.

Caelumia's eyes glaze over and she makes a strangled gurgling noise, clutching at her throat and gasping for breath. She grasps at thin air, looking desperate, then passes out.

Your sight fades, bleeding once again into darkness. You feel yourself falling through the blackness, though what is falling above you frightens you more than the landing below. A bright light appears in the distance, and though it illuminates little of your surroundings, you feel a measure of hope from it, straining out to grasp it. The light brightens until it is almost blinding, and all at once the vision fades again, leaving you a bit disoriented.

A flurry of visions drill themselves into your mind, one after another, in an almost desperate speed. First, an army of preserved undead, with yourself at the lead. Next, fighting against a paladin and a cleric, their holiness unbearable to look at, burning your flesh and bone. A grip on your soul, dragging you back to unlife against your will. You drop to your knees and let out a piercing scream as an arrow lodges into your skull with a sickening thunk. The vision abruptly ceases, leaving you with a massive, splitting headache.

Caelumia grimaces and puts her hands to her forehead, her eyes clenching themselves tightly shut. Suddenly she lets out a drawn out scream, falling to the ground and covering her head with both hands. Suddenly she stops, looking a bit pensive. A bit of blood seeps from the inside of her ears, staining wisps her hair.