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Turning of The Gear - Part 2: The Dreams of the Dead

He sat up, in shock, more from surprise rather than fear. The dream had been vividly real, and the images haunted him. It was still early, the sun had not risen yet, but from the adreneline in his temples, he knew he would be able to fall asleep again.

The inn had been empty of patrons when he arrived the evening before. According to the barkeep, business there was sparce some nights, but the people of Sanctus kept him busy enough.

Santus. The word echoed in his mind like a drop of water in an empty cave as he had laid down to sleep. Another thing that was familiar but he had no memory of.

Not like the dream. The dream had been vivid. Almost painfully so.

He had sat in the center of a trio of thrones in the grand hall of a castle. But it was not as he appeared now. He was wrapped in robes of gold and purple, crafted of the finest silks, not the simple cotton garb he wore now. His hands were made of gold, clockwork and pistons, empowered with the essence of magic. A magic he discovered. A magic he lorded over. Technomancy.

The three who sat and ruled from these thrones were bound in ways others could never understand. On his left hand was a man who could be his brother, by looks, by his feelings and by the zeal they shared. He was the taskmaster and kept the order that was needed. On his right sat a woman, dark eyed, alabaster skin, flawless features. Without knowing her, he knew she was his love, his life and his general. Before them stood an army, full of life, fervor and passion. This was not a horde, for they had order and structure, but they were no less fearsome.

The castle melted away, and the men marched forward, under the banner of the Golden Gear. The marched through the woods and stormed an ancient city, its defenders in silver and green falling like wheat before the scythe.

Enemies and allies freely mingled in his dream. The Wizard of Blue, the Man in Bronze, the Crow who would be King, the Elven Princess, the Maiden of the Gauntlet, the Mask of Humanity, the Oracle of the Skull.

The Skull. Its appearance swept everything else aside. Before he had served the Gear, he had served the Skull. He had left a place of power, of rulership and cast it all aside to come to the Skull. It had torn him apart, left him weak as a child and stranded in the snow. But there were others in the snow, the cold and merciless city of the dead.

And in the City of Death he had flourished, student to masters long gone from the realm, passed beyond the veil of Oblivion. He stood among masters of death and taught the craft to others, becoming masters themselves. Death and decay grew fervently, guided and cultivated by the Skull and the Will of the Skull.

The Decay set itself to him and he felt it tear at the fiber of his being, an eternity of sacrifce was not enough. it had taken his eyes and given him the curse and blessing that bound him to the Skull and the Skull to him. He could look away from the Skull and it called, tugging at hooks deep within. It had torn him to bits, fathered him, destroyed him, birthed him anew...

A cold shivver ran down his spine. Had the Skull pulled him back from where he was? Where had he been?

He had no answers, but as he grasped at fading shadows, one word kept coming back to his mind.

Umbra.

After washing and quickly dressing, he began flipping through the rune books. A lone rune in a near empty tome stood out. "Morn Cirith" Without knowing why, he knew it was the right place to go.

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To be continued...

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Original Post Date: Mon Sep 14, 2009