By Anitar and Alexandros.
Thormun's War Journal 263
Circa 78WE [Wellspring Era], Approximately 3 months to the Age of Annihilation
I find myself writing by candlelight once more, abruptly awoken from a cryptic vision. Again, I was a wolf. My senses were heightened in a way I could not adequately articulate to those who not have shared the experience. I found myself in a vivid wasteland comprised of white shifting sands, set against a crimson sky. In the horizon that laid before me, I struggled to make out shapes and figures that stood static and could not move. And yet, somehow, I knew that they wanted to. I heard screams that could not be, formed by mouths that were not there. Begging, pleading, to escape from their reality.
As my eyes darted across the mystic dunes, I spotted a familiar face. A mighty, giant eagle stood in the shifting sands. Its gaze fell upon me, and it spoke to me without speaking. It showed me images of planets plundered of their mightiest warriors by careless generals. And then it showed me something I could not have anticipated—distorted reflections of the planets we have come to know. Not Earth, but a sinister world where untold horrors lurk behind the veil. Not Marr, but a world where the beastly inhabitants made machines that allowed them to expand their domain to the skies above and the tunnels below. Not Feylund, but a world with a syndicate of wizards with magic given sentient form.
When the images ceased, I turned to find an old friend, the cobra with ruby eyes. But when I looked in them to find my vile reflection, I found only myself, granted newfound clarity.
Just like Earth, Marr, and Feylund—these worlds will fall if this trend continues.
If caution is not taken, all will be encapsulated by the influence of the Wellsprings. Even those static, nondescript figures, begging for an opportunity to break free from their prison, will be released and summoned by the Kyrie warlords of Valhalla.
In years prior, my subconscious would have rebelled against these visions. I would have found them disconcerting—no, horrifying—and would have been plagued by their appearance for days, disquieted by the symbolism they presented to me. I would have done anything not to look the nightmare that is this war in Valhalla in the eye. To hose it down in a gagging perfume, rather than call it what it really is—vile and impermissible.
This is not so for the cobra. He has always known.
These past years, Vydar has been holed up in his manor, summoning more forces and seldom joining in the war effort. Long have I questioned why, what his end goal could be, and how his survival alone could be his idea of a victory.
Now I've seen glimpses of it. Echoes of what the future holds, of what the past holds. Following my discussions with Vydar as of late, I've grown more sure than ever—he already knows the dark secrets I've only just come to suspect. He knows how this bloody war is likely to end, and has always been preparing for it.
I must know more. I plan to speak with him again tomorrow, and address the matter directly. I will go alone, and have already instructed Saylind to summon me to safety at the first sign of something going wrong.