Dream journal of Firilanya

Publication date : 07/21/2014 Original media : Loremaster's archive By Madam Firilanya, 2E 582 3rd Second Seed I’ve got to start writing these down or I feel I’ll go mad. They have to go somewhere. The Telvanni potions that were supposed to quiet the dreams did no more than make my tongue blue and give me the hiccups. I can almost feel them laughing at my back as we set out on the long journey to Wrothgar. I’ll have to remember to tell Low-Neck to stop all transactions with those untrustworthy wizards. Last night the song was red. Browned and dried at the edges. Flaking off. They chased me through the halls, always gaining. Great heroes battled them and fell in pools of blood that rang out with sickly chords. Ever-Open Eye. The Terror of Kora-Dur. Son of the Fire Stone. My stomach churns remembering their gibbering, telling me what they would do when they caught up, untold numbers of voices screaming to form their words. I woke sweating and tear-stained, as always. 16th Mid Year Just when I thought they were over. Another dream. I’d almost turned from the path to Wrothgar and the only lead I have that might be able to stop them, so I suppose it’s a blessing of a twisted sort. All was green, the green of the wavering bands of Skyrim’s night sky. Only there were no stars, there was no sky and no ground. A star descended towards my head, a grain of sand in a gigantic hourglass. 12 stones ringed my body, floating and colliding with enemies that assaulted me from all sides, lunging from the Aetherial mist. The sound of cracking bones formed the rhythm, the hum of the star growing louder every second. What would happen if it reached my skull? I am relieved I never found out. One of the Nord traders in the caravan heard me sobbing and roused me. 1st Sun’s Height I wonder how my former employer fares. I hope Low-Neck has kept up the deliveries. I’ve been too sick to travel, too weary. Last night’s was worse than usual. I have to get back on the road. The darkness was breathing. Hissing against sharpened teeth. 8th Sun’s Height Purple. An ocean of words telling unimaginable tortures. The innocent crying out for salvation in the void, the curses from Daedric tongues lingering on their flesh, uncured. The heroes again, the last shred of their hope bleeding out as their leader fell. Machines rust beneath the ground—even they cannot escape the decay. There is no protection, no beetle-shell to fend off the growing nothingness. The dead are four and four and four then three, students of the crawling weft and warp left to live. The void looms.