Leyla's Dream

Leyla's Dream

     Her vision swam, everything seemed out of sorts. She was also somewhere she hadn't ever been to before, yet it was familiar, kind of like visiting a place you've seen a photo of.

     The dream seemed visceral and real, and while she was used to dreams of that caliber (having a natural magical aptitude typically has side effects due to that individual's special relationship with The Arcanum; a special plane of existence that lays across the other planes and is the source of all magic) she felt that this dream was something different, a premonition of some sort. 

     She could see herself standing in the middle of a broad room next to a large bronze and copper altar, shaped like a huge basin and blackened from fire it rests on six legs 1 foot above the floor. The basin 8 feet in diameter, is filled with charcoal and bits of blackened bone. The vessel is dented and cut, a single chain dangles over it from the ceiling.

     She could feel herself channeling intense arcane magics, and chanting words she had never heard before her voice ululating with abandon, her hands gesturing in wild, drastic motions. She could sense the magic with every sense she had, she could see the white brightness of the abjuration magics, smell the dark muskiness of necromancy, hear the groan of transmutation, taste the sweetness of divination, and even feel the tingle of evocation. She also experienced the mind opening sensation of Chronomancy, tapping directly into the temporal prime, drawing into the present both everything that once was, and might have been. At the culmination of the spell she saw herself reach into a pouch dangling at her side, drawing forth a black skull and holding it out towards the basin on the altar. She could feel the power of the skull pulsing, rhythmically with the arcane torrent filling the room.

     All at once, as if planned, several things happened in concordance with each other. First a gout of dark black flames erupted from the basin next to her, erupting forth with such force that it expelled a shockwave which then blew out everything loose that was in the surrounding area, dust and debris alike. Second the bronze doors leading into the altar room burst open, and in stumbled a large group of people who she recognized as her compatriots. Subconsciously she urged to shout out to them, warn them of the surging magics in the room, but she found she could not give voice to her thoughts.

     She could see Roth and Gwyneth next to each of the two massive doors, temporarily thrown off balance, after just bursting them open. She could see the Rogueling twins move into the room, splitting up and heading to the sides of the room. Into the middle of the room strode three figures. Altus, standing confidently, bow at the ready, arrow knocked, with his pet coiled near his feet, ready to leap. Owla, crouched, bow drawn, a growl upon her lips, and rage in her eyes. And Ranvier, breathing hard, bow also drawn, arrow cackling with energy.

     Behind these three she could make out Varion, Balarion, and several other people she did not know, everyone looking war-ragged, bruised, and battered. In their midst she caught sight of one last person... the... mage? She recognized the female mage they had fought earlier almost instantly, and while she did not see her deadly compatriots (the Marksman and Chain fighter) anywhere, she could see the mage clear as day, standing with her friends... as if they had allied with the other mage. She was cloaked, he hands already forming the gestures she recognized as an offensive spell.

     She couldn't understand what was going on, why were they with her, why did they come into this altar room where she was performing a magic ritual looking like that were ready for a fight. It was at that time that she spoke the last word of the ritual, and the three ranged attackers loosed their arrows. One crackling with energy streaked forth catching her in her chest. One bursting with flame streaked forward catching her in the neck. The final arrow, loosed from the halfling rogue found her heart and stopped it short of it's last beat.

     Her confusion only intensified as she felt herself dying, her blood draining from her wounds, her heart still - unmoving -  in her chest. She heard herself mutter quietly "forgive me... if I'm wrong...". Born on by the fury of arcane magic around her she stretched her arm out just a little further and let the skull roll out of her hand and into the basin. With the skull, fled the last of her life force, and she felt herself die.

Her vision faded quickly, as she lay there - her last sight the dirty ceiling above her as she felt herself slipping away into nothingness...