Dies Irae In the darkness, the dreams come. I don't know when they started, or when they will end, but whenever I close my eyes, they are there. Images of death. Tonight, in my sleep, I dream. I dream..... *** I awaken slowly, and blink as the sunlight pierces my sleep induced weariness. Suddenly, I jump to my feet. I'm in a forest, surrounded by trees, and the occasional owl. A clearing is ahead. I explode through the clearing, arriving at the plateau of a nearby mountain. I've always been quick on my feet; it's one of the benefits of studying athar. I look down into the valley below. Aislings are fighting with a group of goblins, barely holding their own as the goblins summon reinforcements. I feel an unusual weight in my hands. It is a two-handed emerald sword, which is gleaming in the noon sunlight. Engraved into the hilt are the words "Dies Irae". I wonder how it is possible for me to wield such a weapon....I look at my trusty Journeyman, and I don't see it. In its place is crimson battle armor, with a brilliant gold octogram carved into the breastplate. I wonder how this is possible, and then I feel it. I feel the anger surge in me like the tide of the ocean. I hear myself scream a horrible scream, and run down into the valley. The Aislings look up in fear and wonder, and then I realize Death is here in all its forms. I slowly bring the emerald sword to bear on the closest goblin. As if in slow motion, the sword descends upon the leader and cleaves him in two. He twitches, and falls to the ground. The other monsters decide to avenge him, and engage me. The Aislings fall back, unable to understand what is happening. Step, strike. Parry, counterstrike. Slash, thrust. My sword has become angry, and it needs to be appeased. The crimson blood of the enemy caresses the sword like a long-lost lover. The armor jangles as the goblin weapons bounce off of it with no effect. I crush the closest kobold, and he falls to the ground, clutching at his now non-existent torso. I rip the ground out from the other leader with the mere force of my motion, and I hear him scream. The sword is asking for his life, and I find myself unable to deny it. A fountain of blood erupts from where his head used to be. I raise the sword into the air, and for a moment, all is quiet. The sun, overhead, is in the exact middle of the sky. The sun hits the emerald sword, and it shines. It shines with an unholy, pestilential light. A light from hell itself. A light to make even Sgrios uneasy. The enemy turns and flees. I chase after them. I follow them into their villages, and kill their women and children. All are equal before the sword, who has no loyalty, no allies. The sword knows only Death, and I do my best to appease it. I burn the villages to nothingness. In the flames, I fight. The sword is alive now, moving with my will. I strike again and again. The goblins flee from each of their ruined outposts. Fleeing Death itself. Each of them falls before the sword, their screams and blood contributing to the chaos. The fire spreads. The forest is alive with flame now, and I can see Aislings trying to put it out, working with mundanes. A wizard spots me, and conflict ensues. His spells are absorbed by the armor, and his cries of srad die in his throat as the sword politely asks him to be quiet. Now, I'm fighting my own people. The sword knows nothing but Death. It posesses me. I am superhuman, moving with incredible speed. The best Rogues cannot trap me. Priests cannot target me. All fall in the incredible onslaught of the sword. Their cries echo in my head. The cries of the mundanes as I turn the village to ash and kill their families, one by one. I don't even know what village I'm in until I see the Mileth altar. The statue of the Aosda stares at me impassionately. One blow from the sword is all it takes, and the statue is pulverized. Mundanes run forth, screaming about desecration. The sword instructs them on how to be quiet, and they fall, clutching at their throats. All I see now is flames. Fire, red burning anger, possesses me. It consumes me. All that matters is the sword. Mileth is ash, reduced to nothingness by the fires. Mundanes whimper in the wreckage, praying to whatever dead god they worship that I won't find them. The sword knows. It finds them and does horrible things to them. They scream and scream and scream to no avail. Incredibly, the sword quiets. The flames slowly burn out, and I can see again. I look at the destruction evenly, with no emotion. I slowly put the giant two-handed sword in its sheath, a brilliant oversized scabbard covered in gems. "Ceannlaidir?" Something instructs me to turn around, and there she is. I spin around, and look at my antithesis. I look into beauty, into truth, into warmth and love and all the things that the sword hates and despises. Her blonde hair cascades in waves off of her perfect face. Her green eyes possess infinite calm. Her gentle lips part in what can only be construed as mild amazement. And even as I look at this beautiful creature, I realize that she holds no hatred for me. She...may even understand me. In Death, there is life, and in life, there is love...but I have known neither. I fall to my knees. Her beauty overwhelms me. I whisper a name. A name that for thousands of years has meant salvation. A name of love, a name of compassion. A name of the woman I know I love, but I cannot understand it. "Glioca.." *** I scream, and awaken. I clutch my chest, only to find the crimson battle armor gone, replaced by my night robes. Chloe is there, in the darkness, asking me if I am alright. I clutch her to me, her warmth comforting me, and making me forget the horrible things I have seen. I begin to cry. A long, heaving sob consumes me. I try to recount my experience, but I cannot. Fleeting images fade away leaving me with only wisps of the experience. After a long while, sleep finds me. I awake in our home in Rucesion. All is quiet and tranquil as the Temuarian sun pours through the open window, illuminating the room in yellow and orange. I slowly arise, and walk over to the closet that serves as a storage room. Our associated junk gathers here, until we either give it to a higgler or throw it out. I open the door, and fall to my knees, shaking. In the closet is the crimson armor, and the glistening emerald sword. I grab at the sword, attempting to pick it up, and fall over, as I cannot even move it. I manage to turn it over, and there is the engraving. The words revive the memories, and I remember everything in a rush of shame, exhiliration, and sadness. What I now know to be Glioca's voice murmurs in the background: "Dies Irae..."