Blade of Erogrund

He was surrounded by darkness.

No, Godric thought, that isn’t right.

It was not pure darkness. A brutal charcoal grey spun around so quickly in the half-light that its swirling swath appeared like a great black curtain of shadow. Where this light came from could not be found but instead seemed to simply exist like a thousand tiny origins that all at once began and ceased amid the mass of turning curtain around him.

As he struggled to stumble back, he found himself standing on a narrow slate-like rock that projecting out from a steep cliff where the smell of fresh fog on a cloudy day engulfed his senses. Stones spun from under his feet as he turned, skipping over the edge into a looming precipice. He watched it fall for what seemed like an eternity into a murky, cloudy fog that engulfed whatever lie below, churning in sickening rolls and twists like some foul clouds destined to be harbingers of ill fate. Never did the sound of the stone hitting the land below reach his ears.

In a startling change, the curtain around him suddenly was lifted by some ethereal hand, raising him to a plain of blazing light that momentarily startled him to the point of falling from the stone outcrop he stood on.

With a rush of terror his feet struck an obsidian-black rock as slick as ice, hurtling him helplessly toward the edge of the cliff. The warmth of fear filled his hands and he felt the serpent of fear slither up his throat with his heart in its mouth but somehow his hand managed to catch on a rock, staying his fall.

The scene below blazed through his mind in such a way as only those few moments of pure horror Men are unlucky enough to experience in their lives. Those moments when the world around them burns with the uncertainty that rises like magma in their chests and falls like a searing brand upon not their minds but their hearts. The frigid air from where he hung did nothing to still the burning terror that singed his courage but instead added another layer to the pain as the frosty atmosphere froze its way into his lungs. His throat closed from the combination of burning cold and rising horror as his eyes defied his mind and gazed upon what certainly awaited him below.

This was indeed pure darkness. Surely whatever had surrounded him formerly was merely a guise to hide the devastating sight.

Below seethed a pit of shadow in rolling waves each more accursed and fearsome than that which preceded it. With a throatless groaning it echoed out in screams like the harshest wind, propelling a nauseating scent that Godric could neither recognize nor describe. It was as though the stench of every corpse and misery experienced by Dwarf, Elf, or Man had been release from an ancient crypt and thrown with scorching vivaciousness into the nostrils of whoever was unfortunate enough to stand within its grasp, but such wording could only attempt to capture the first midday shadow of its horror. It manifested in every way and became more than an antithesis of light but an element completely unique beyond the comprehension of the mortal.

Each wave that rolled through its nightmarish expanse seemed to pull at him, defying his repulsion. The shadows that it sent from the depths of whatever was within it rose higher and higher until they engulfed his feet, letting their slithering tendrils entangle him and draw him in.

Suddenly everything from his memory disappeared. The very reason for which he hung from the cliff escaped his mind as one so engrossed in their task that they force aside all others. In one action Godric’s fingers released their desperate grip and he tumble on the fingers of the shadow toward the murk below.

Then as soon as the scene had manifested itself, it disappeared.

Every element of the nightmare dissolved into a white mist as pure as the fairest cloud but refused to release him. Instead the cloudy atmosphere rearranged itself into something else. What it was his thoughts could scarcely comprehend more than the previous vision.

White as the finest marble, the mist condensed into a great sheet that filled his view. It was firm in appearance, though he could not get himself to move enough to feel it, but had an air of distance to it has the morning fog had when it shrouded over the pastures outside of Dunn on spring mornings.

After countless moments the eerie stillness of the scene was broken by a chorus of whispers that knit their own layer over the vision. Hundreds of voices slithered into one another in a tongue unlike any that had fallen upon his ears. Its very utterance sent chills down his spine as though an icicle was posed to impale him from above, dripping solemn drops down his back in warning of its fall. In accordance with the slithering speech, spirals of milky black ribbon curled through the cloudy scene in a damning elegance that somehow told him that whatever the incoherent speech said was in fact of grim importance.

Opening his mouth to cry out, no sound would come forth. The voices hastened their frantic whispering in response but still were beyond his understanding. Raising in both tone and speed, the voices became oppressive until the black ribbons polluted the white scene into a cloth of nearly total black, shaking the scene but to no avail.

When at last the noise felt as though it would rip Godric’s skull apart at the seams, a ribbon shot from the quilt of surging movement and struck him brutally on the shoulder.

With a start, Godric awoke.

Hilthwen was standing over him, a look of grim concern barely readable on her face by the light of the small fire which still burned behind her.

“Are you alright?” Her apprehension was obvious in her tone.

The darkness of night still surrounded them filling the silent void of the grove of trees. Occasional tongues of flame sought to flicker beyond the small realm of light the fire provided. With this one exception, nothing disrupted the relatively familiar scene.

“I...I’m okay,” he said with little assurance. The vivid visions from which he had just sprung still battled their way to the forefront of his mind to the point they distracted from Hilthwen’s sharp gaze.

“No you’re not. You’re eyes are glazed like rough glass. There,” she continued after jostling him again, “now they’re back to normal. What was going on? You were chanting like a possessed Orshi. Got so loud I had to wake you.”

He rubbed his eyes to rid them of the last curtains of sleep. “I’m not entirely sure.” The gruesome nightmares replayed in his mind in the course of a split second, sending another tremor through him. “Just nightmares, I think.”

She stood up. “That’s quite a nightmare. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Why not? I don’t feel like getting any more sleep now anyway.”

The girl cracked a smile. “That’s the spirit. Have a seat by the fire; it’s getting icier than a dragon’s heart out here.”

Godric complied as he began to feel the fingers of cold gripping his feet and hands. Pulling his cloak around him, he took a deep breath. “I was on a cliff - ”

“Where?” Hilthwen interrupted intently.

Eyebrows drawing together thoughtfully, he shook his head. “I don’t know. It was dark. I almost thought it was night or something, but it was just the.... I don’t even know what to call it.”

“Start by describing it. What did it look like?”

“It was like leather, but huge. A massive, moving curtain of leather that somehow broke and came apart all around me. It blocked out most of the light but then it disappeared. Everything suddenly became so bright that I fell.” He glance up at her and she nodded for him to continue. Taking another deep breath, he did just that. “There was something below.” Another fleet of shivers took his body as he remembered the seething shadows. “I held onto the cliff, but it came for me. It came out like some kind of mist rising from a pit. And then suddenly I didn’t want to hold on. I didn’t even know what I wanted.”

Hilthwen leaned back against a wizened, gnarled tree trunk. “What happened then?”

“I let go,” he said distantly. “I fell until...” As his tongue contorted to begin describing the second vision a searing horror at even considering such a thing inflamed his heart and stayed his mouth. It passed almost before it had come, but surely it had been there.

“Until?” The girl asked.

He hesitated. “Until I hit the ground. Then I woke up.”

Her eyes searched him until she nodded. “You’re right; that does sound pretty scary. You’ll get used to it, though.” Already lost in thought, he failed to answer. Shrugging, she just continued. “Most people get dreams of some kind on their first patrol. Stress, fear, and pressure aren’t a great combination. Don’t worry, it won’t last long.”

“If you say so,” he murmured. Despite his best efforts Hilthwen’s words were falling unheard in light of the events that replayed in his mind. Each time it felt even more real than the last. The whispers particularly stuck in his mind, repeating their meaningless chants rhythmically in desperate attempts to be understood.

The two sat in silence for some time, letting the crackling of the fire fill the vacuum of stillness. After some time had gone by and the fire was dwindling to flickering embers, Hilthwen tossed several more sticks on and stood, stretching.

“Alright, looks like it’s your shift.”

Godric glanced up at her. “So just stay awake and keep an eye out?”

“Essentially,” she said, pulling up her cowl. “I’m quite certain Matthias packed a weapon for you; check the saddlebags to be sure. When the moon gets to there,” her hand pointed to a spot just between two spindly trees, “wake Matthias. Give a shout if there’s any trouble and be sure to keep the fire burning.”

He leaned in towards the fire and gestured that he understood. From the sound of it, Hilthwen stepped into the shadows aside from the camp and lay in the ferns surrounding the trees.

Far off in the distance a howl split the night air, but it could not succeed in instilling more concern that Godric already felt. Not for the shadows, no, not even for what lie in wait amid them, but for what had transpired in his mind. The words still held mastery in his thought, but to no avail. No matter how determinedly he bent his will upon deciphering them, their meaning still eluded him.

So also did the occasional waver in the foliage surrounding the trees. In truth, it was not until the tall but haggard frame of a man stumbled into the firelight that he saw any disturbance in the night.

The man, who wore a metal jerkin twisted and gnarled with the gruesome marks of some beast, was clad in a cloak dripping with scarlet blood. His cheeks were paled under a starkly contrasted black beard which covered much of his chin and jawline. Cloudy green eyes stared dully out from thick eyebrows wide with some recent emotion.

“Friend....If you would....”