Post by Doctor Atomic on Nov 13, 2020 21:29:57 GMT -8
A dream that comes to you in the Iron Halls
It was a dark and stormy night.
Your boots and cloak are soaked through, the rain driving into you with seeming ill intent. What's worse, you seem to be developing a burning itch in an intimate personal region.
As you walk through the town, ankle deep in mud, a flash of lightning rips the darkness away and you see a ewe dressed in revealing silks watching you from a window.
Strange things move in the shadows at the edge of your vision, hulking things, snarling things, misshapen things, and other fell shapes; but you are in a convention town so this is to be expected. Lightning slashes the sky and you notice a man in green and gold robes disappear around a corner.
The storm grows more powerful, it is an eldritch wind that seems to be home to screaming spirits, insane poodles, and bony hands that try to clutch you in their grasp. People caught in the storm stumble back with dead, black eyes. Black armoured figures appear and cut their victims down with rune-carved blades.
The wind rips shutters from windows and tears off roof tiles and thatch while people try to read complicated insurance forms with bleeding eyes. A lamb is born alive but otherwise unharmed. A heifer's milk is found to be not only sour but also flavoured with pumpkin spice and carbonated. A slave with one burning hand runs by, but is directed back to the production of Julius Caesar being performed down the street.
The wind flings you into the air; you feel it clawing at your mind, your soul, your flesh, and your money pouch like a deranged squirrel looking for nuts. As you spin through darkness you hear a sonorous voice intone, “We have been trying to get in touch with you about your wagon warrantee…” and quickly change the channel to hear, “the harrowstorms were a weapon used by Gloomraven in the wars against the Mountain King, a weapon we most earnestly wish never to be recovered or wielded again. The cost in lives and souls cannot be measured and too many who survived became the Harrowed, soulless black-eyed murderous carrion. The depredations of the Harrow Knights also will not soon be forgotten. We will return in a moment after this word by our sponsor, Volo’s Guide to Pestilence and Personal Infections…”
The scene shifts abruptly to a view of two women sharing a moment of prolonged and family inappropriate affection. One is pale skinned with dark hair, the other is tanned with blonde hair and both are wearing black leather straps that constrain their flesh and yet reveal all. The blonde looks at you and smiles, “it’s just a coincidence.”
You hear the forlorn cry of a loon (not the bird) in the distance and then an unseen voice says, “It is a matter of Will and Consciousness”, as you wake up.
It was a dark and stormy night.
Your boots and cloak are soaked through, the rain driving into you with seeming ill intent. What's worse, you seem to be developing a burning itch in an intimate personal region.
As you walk through the town, ankle deep in mud, a flash of lightning rips the darkness away and you see a ewe dressed in revealing silks watching you from a window.
Strange things move in the shadows at the edge of your vision, hulking things, snarling things, misshapen things, and other fell shapes; but you are in a convention town so this is to be expected. Lightning slashes the sky and you notice a man in green and gold robes disappear around a corner.
The storm grows more powerful, it is an eldritch wind that seems to be home to screaming spirits, insane poodles, and bony hands that try to clutch you in their grasp. People caught in the storm stumble back with dead, black eyes. Black armoured figures appear and cut their victims down with rune-carved blades.
The wind rips shutters from windows and tears off roof tiles and thatch while people try to read complicated insurance forms with bleeding eyes. A lamb is born alive but otherwise unharmed. A heifer's milk is found to be not only sour but also flavoured with pumpkin spice and carbonated. A slave with one burning hand runs by, but is directed back to the production of Julius Caesar being performed down the street.
The wind flings you into the air; you feel it clawing at your mind, your soul, your flesh, and your money pouch like a deranged squirrel looking for nuts. As you spin through darkness you hear a sonorous voice intone, “We have been trying to get in touch with you about your wagon warrantee…” and quickly change the channel to hear, “the harrowstorms were a weapon used by Gloomraven in the wars against the Mountain King, a weapon we most earnestly wish never to be recovered or wielded again. The cost in lives and souls cannot be measured and too many who survived became the Harrowed, soulless black-eyed murderous carrion. The depredations of the Harrow Knights also will not soon be forgotten. We will return in a moment after this word by our sponsor, Volo’s Guide to Pestilence and Personal Infections…”
The scene shifts abruptly to a view of two women sharing a moment of prolonged and family inappropriate affection. One is pale skinned with dark hair, the other is tanned with blonde hair and both are wearing black leather straps that constrain their flesh and yet reveal all. The blonde looks at you and smiles, “it’s just a coincidence.”
You hear the forlorn cry of a loon (not the bird) in the distance and then an unseen voice says, “It is a matter of Will and Consciousness”, as you wake up.