Midnight RPG - Chapter 28.411
WHEN?=[edit]
This "dream vision" can take place the night prior or after the current scenes happening in Bluebook or in-game realtime. Multiple dreams a night are fine, if you had one... :)
In Dream[edit]
The images swirl in your head. As each subject is broached - illusions of the words form in dream.
Spinning in the sky at first dropping to the balcony of beautiful Alamath, sister of Eranon the stalker. She has no more tears. Her rage has taken form of pity now... yet what can be done, the queen has spoke the word. She has held back her Queen from taking the battlefield with Ossion herself, clad in armor - yet naked and bare.
Rushing away from the Caradul chamber of Alamath - we spin and tumble through the Erethor. Wrapping 'round trees, dodging skittish stags, scarring snorting orts along the way... far ... far... south. The Aruun. The jungles. A spotted leapord-like cat big as a man growls, as the scene flicker between images of Aradil pacing within her sanctum - finally signing the tome of life that shall committ this task to the Elder Tree. Ensuring the souls of these cursed few to find their way home once the blight takes them... You hear the voice of "Alamath the Fair"...
"Here me - brother, here me - Sarcosan, here me - Eranon, here me - Zal'Kazzir... I come to you now at the turn of the tide. The fall of the fairy-folk may be at hand, as it is certain the death of purity follows. Our Queen has turned a corner, a step I feel forced upon her by the urging of certain councillors with strong ties to the Cults of Aradil, becoming as they term 'the Witch's Council'. Even still this is not enough to see that Lady Aradil is not fully enthralled by the true and pure songs of her line. I know... I yet see it in her eyes - the wisdom of Kirinhi, the nobility of Benaedan, the strength of Tharadilia... I see in her still the wilder ways of Shadiuil and his Council of the Throen." (ERANON ONLY: click HERE for reference). "She has not lost herself, she is not lost to Shadow as the lesser of us would be. And I am not yet lost to complete dispair. However, I send this dream to you so that it may be a dream of hope in your hands. If this weapon is turned against us somehow, there will yet be others of knowledge to tell our tale and take up our flags.
What I tell you now, I tell you for the sake of our people. Use this trust wisely... unknown to all but the closest of the Queen's advisors, there is one terrible weapon remaining to the fey, a weapon that Aradil fears to use and, even more, loathes that she would even consider it. Yet it remains. Yet is waited ready.
Two years ago, a lone Danisil warrior stumbled into an isolated village in the Aruun... The warrior was covered in lesions breaking up newly branded tatoos. Obviously in the throws of death. The village's most skilled healer could not save the warrior, or herself as the disease spread across the village rapidly as the fires of the eastern edges...
The selfless elves quarantined themselves and the disease was contained - and later continued to the sorrow of all. It was the druids of the Hamlet the eventually found a means to slow the cursed disease but not the cure. As shaman, witches and healers alike toiled for a cure they had discovered something strange - the disease only affected those with blood of the ancients... FEY! No animal, dire or otherwise - no human who came into contact with the disease ever sickened. To great shame, at the beckoning of the council, Aradil has kept the village alive. Willing volunteers asking to be doomed for the prolonging of this hateful blight, venture into the jungles, into the village. Missionaries of a sort - they bring the comforts and words of their queen to these doomed few, yet those that venture in can never escape the clutches of the plague ... becoming as hosts for the disease. Equally deadly to orc due to their lineage of fey blood and heritage this isolated place has become a culture for the unseen things that grow and fester before death, this place represents a potent living weapon of horrifying proportion. One in which the Enemy in the North would surely use if given the notion.
Lord Ossion has culled the herd and taken only his bravest - even now they coral the stag that shall take these... these... "PLAGUE ORCS" on a norther bound journey. The Arrows direct these men and women, along the long distance. And in time our own elite, the Arrows themselves will take their place, the guides becoming the carriers themselves - as the village plague bearers succumb to their failing bodies. Their souls given away and back to the Whisper.
It is with sadness I bring this to you, yet I know you remain well. Commander Ghulvenne, I thank you for appraising me of your and my brother's path...
I have arranged an envoy to make haste to the Green Marches on the morning, much time was needed to arrange this as I have chosen not to take this to the Council for fear of their rash actions. I have enlisted Breoul of the Hamlet to master the sagery, and Sovaliss the Eye Master herself has taken interest enough to request she travel with the caravan. While I worry her intentions may be more than of wonder about this 'Cadaverous Eye' she is loyal to the Queen and I trust her promise that all will remain close to her chest of knowledges... My own research into this foul thing tells me that it is of a Dwarven tradition. A betrayer that felled the greatest heritage of the men of stone. This hated eye became a pawn of treachery for that which lurks beneath the spine of the world.
I fear to tell you that your worry for the Vile has climaxed... The Vile died of unknown measure himself days ago. It was a great surge that toppled the grove of prison trees inwhich he was held and his essence had apparently expired before the fall. This too led to the path for which Aradil now walks, and even she amid the sages, wizards and healers could not discover the reason for the Vile's demise. His body now rests beneath his beloved stars in a hidden cemetary that even now crawls with maggots, centipedes, ants and vermin. A vigil watch has been set with the Autumn troop. None... no necromantic mind will take back his scarred form while they guard. It is a sad day, when even a fouled eldar falls.
May the great lady's blessings be upon you, love let hope. Ashial Atoriathe." (High Elven, meaning "May the branches part in the wind, revealing your way")
The voice fades as for a moment your skin crawls as if fire ants were beneath, knawling on your bones... It is a different world this day...
GM NOTE[edit]
For my reference: This is actually talked about very briefly - Fury of Shadow, page 84.
