I walked alongside a hooded figure, picking our way along a high ridge. He pointed to the stinking valley below, where vast ribs pulsed with the beat of a mountainous heart. He asked me what I saw.
I told him that I saw half of a body, of sorts. Exposed to the elements. Both terrifying, yet vulnerable. He nodded.
The Mother births flesh, but flesh is weak. It can be burned. Seared away. She wants her children to remain one with her, but children must leave home to thrive. The Dreamer once knew her, before the nightmare she became, but that is only a memory of sorrow. She will try to take our flesh, he warned. We must not let her.
— Visions I, 40 : Naissance |
The Dreamer led me through a great furnace, where slaves shovelled coal into vast flues, their limbs melting, their eyes blind. He pointed to the charnel pits. He asked me what I saw.
I told him that I saw hunger beyond any other. A need that could never be sated, that could only exist by consuming ever more. He nodded.
The Red Pyre burns hot, but flames are ephemeral. They can be quenched. Doused. Flames can never endure, only spread. The Dreamer once knew him, before his addiction, but that is only a memory of regret. He will try to burn us, he warned. We must not let him.
— Visions II, 18 : Flamme |
Voiceless whispers chattered like bone-dry teeth as the Dreamer led me through a vast labyrinth of metal veins and pulsing arteries. He pointed to the sky, the center, where a crystalline face spun, its eyes hollow, its stark jaw mouthing unheard rantings. He asked me what I saw.
I hesitated. I thought I knew, but did not trust myself. In a world so filled with ghastly flesh, here, then, was a mind without it. He nodded.
The Forked Psyche thinks without will, decides without desire. It drains all motion and life to voice thoughts that no one hears; to decipher truths without meaning. The Dreamer once knew her, before she relinquished her soul, but that is only a memory of despair. She will try to swallow our minds, he warned. We must not let her.
— Visions III, 91 : Pensées |
Weakened from our long journey, the Dreamer sat beside a chilly hollow, one of many, laid out in vast lonely rows. He pointed down, at the being within, silent and still. He asked me what I saw.
Quite fearful now, I took a moment to answer. The aura was unmistakable. This was a graveyard. For the first time, he shook his head.
The Preserved Patterns do not venerate the dead. They live still, eyes open, hands frozen while grasping for freedom from the icy will that holds them in thrall. The Dreamer once knew her, when her heart still held passion, but that is only a memory of loss. She will try to imprison our bodies, he warned. We must not let her.
— Visions IV, 7 : Mort |
Weary now, the Dreamer bade me sit beside him. We had come full circle in my nights spent dreaming, and now sat outside our very own Monastery. He pointed out, at the world beyond, and asked me what I saw.
A verdant, beautiful, living world, I told him. Unspoiled. He nodded.
The Four have become One, he warned. He tried to help them, tried to mitigate the agonies in their souls that drove them like whips at their backs, but they lashed out. Wounded him; cast him into the void. They had purpose before, but now, know only rage and hunger. Their patchwork existence tears at the seams, filling their thoughts with nothing but screams. They will be coming, he warned. We must not let them.
With that, he faltered, lay on the soil, and slept.
When I awoke, I was in that very same spot, and the Genesis Tree had sprouted its first branches, right where the Dreamer lay. It is his gift to us... our armoury against the Hiveborn. We will not fail him.
— Visions V, 104 : Son don |
