[Drive]

Dreams are a fickle thing. 

We dream for our purpose, and we dream for our subconscious, it is how our brain works out our own trauma. 

But who lies in the realm of dreams? 

Do they speak to us?

The theurgy of the pantheon’s ten can see the same dream, growing more and more unfettered as the year’s end draws to a close. 

The magi that command dreams do not seem to be able to snap out of it, it makes them lethargic and over all incapable of denying this vision.

---

A child stands in the blizzard, hands turned blue from the cold as he makes his way across the lands - it is Meranthe, of an age long past. Wading through the snowy mountains - a gash across his skull dripped red onto the white clad earth below. 

“Mother?” He called out weakly as if it was the only word he could muster - prior to falling face down onto the earth below, covered by the snow - panting as he looked down at his forge burned hands - scarred and without feeling.

The red stains across the snow slowly melt through it, the blood leaks itself through - becoming akin to a river. 

The child grows colder, and colder.

“Mo-.. ther…?” He calls out, one last time.

A last look ahead across the hill to the endless forest of green, something peers right back at him - green and wretched - the eyes reveal much more than need be - the silhouette of a winged woman, sickly green oozing around each of  her feathers. 

“... You choose him...? Mother?” Were the last words the boy let slip as his very soul eloped his visage, and the blood caking the snow below turned to ice.

Caking the floor below, the icy blood became a mirror - a gateway onto the world of current times. 

It is raining the same blood that was spilled that day.

It is raining the same hatred, the same loss, and the forgotten miasma that surged through his visage.

Another child forsaken by the Mother, eyes red - wings of pure black. 

He stares at you, as if you are his target. As if you do not deserve to draw the breath currently in your lungs, the oxygen you have is a waste - and he would like nothing more than to take these lungs out and toss them to the side and watch you struggle to squeal. 

Meranthe feels warm, the air is dry and embers can be smelled at the end of the damp air - a soot coated rain, copper red along the smell - it rains across the entire continent and it holds nothing but contempt, and unrivaled rage. 

An image of the blood rivers targeting the streets of Dal’thala’s many districts - they converge towards the very tablet which holds the words of long past, the words bestowed upon them from the Huntress herself. 

The blood touches the tablet - and the words set in stone begin to unravel, no longer a cipher for those unable to observe.

“He will come, and he will take what is rightfully his.
He will take Her back as that is where She belongs. 
He will burn it all down, ash and blood shall rain for generations.
The rain will come, and keep flowing unfettered.
The Titan of Retribution, as is written.”

The Dream never ends. 

The Message will not be forgotten.

It is Retribution that comes.

---

OOC:

This is a raid against the domain of Delphina.
Target: Destruction of Nemea’s Tablet.
Date: TBA.

[Bologna Prime]

What sculpted shape and meaning unto the raw clay of creation was an act of dance and song, an omnipresent music echoing in the turning of all things gently guiding the sequence of what has been, what is, and what can be. So it has always been. So it may be that in times of disquiet one may pay closer attention and find potent portents in the subtlest of details: Choral whispers running in the wind, for ears keen and looking to listen.

"Behind glossy eyes, he is not there.

Already bereft of his final breath.

Melos dul Vique, so gone to Despair.

Now lost somewhere darker than Death.

Scarcely a man nor a soul anymore.

Flayed as a skin worn by terrors of yore.

As flame of Sin hiding blood run cold.

As farce played the puppet by a Fae of old."

An all-becoming pulse bid by an unfathomable heartbeat echoes through in the chirping of the birds by day and the crickets and tree frogs by night, if one has paid enough thought to recognize. A gradually quickening, tightening cadence in each passing day spells anticipation strung for the approach of something terribly momentous. Hastening. Was it anxious? Was it dread? Was it excitement, as if there were something more to be won than the hope to merely withstand another incursion upon what is well within the wealds? 

Patterns drawn in the sand by tide's passing could indicate things which have been and may be - if one is quick enough to make sense of them before the next wave washes them over. Lines drawn as sweeping arcs to direct that inkling of a ponderous momentum, so broad in time as to cast shadows over what stretch is implicated in a child's dream. Forces which come, forces 
which have worn countless shapes and faces. Pray, by some impending sense of what could be just as much miracle as calamity, one may be brought out to have worn its last.

However versed one might be in divining the omens of an ever-turning and ever-changing world, however much they may decipher from this. Those who cannot hear the distant voices of the wind and those who refuse to shall both seek a sovereign of its song for reasons that could hardly be any more diopposed. Speaking then on behalf of all the choir, for each to know whether in auspice or foreboding:

❖

"Melodor Ingress, so dubbed by Nyphadora.

Ira of Sin, so dubbed by Aeshma.

Paired hands writhing within a corpse.

By crimson paths they'll bring their curse.

Wherein we'll sing an end to Wrath."

❖

SUNDAY, JUNE 7th, 6 PM EST