The Dream of the Forgotten
“Eleven…, wait, why am I counting?
I’ve been counting for awhile now. Have I been counting up or down?
I’m cold and wet! I can’t breath! I am underwater!
Up, yes up!
Thank the Celestial Court!
I’m in a lake at morning.
Fog? No, smoke!
I see people fighting in a field
Men fighting dwarves?!
So many men!
Many dwarves on the ground…
Those dwarves that do fight do so without hope or lust for battle
They fight with rake instead of axe,
Adorned in rags instead of scale or chain.
Something’s got my leg!
Gasp! Air again, thank Moradin and the Host!
But alas, what is this?
Low in the sky, an obelisk wreathed at its zenith in a cloud of gloom?
Elongated monstrosities dive and soar about it, like sentinels.
The sun rises!
And in its midst a floating mote of earth
Crowned with a noble stronghold!
Is it? Could it be?
Is that the Thane of old on its draw?!
But wait. I see others,
Are they all shadows and wraiths?
They are not themselves…
Ugh, my spirit sinks and now so do I
Help me Host on high
Plunging beneath I still see
Through silvered ceiling I count upon the mote…