6th of Vhalar 721, continued from here
There were times in the midst of this dreaming, where Woe wondered if there was any specific rhyme or reason to the order through which he proceeded from one dreamers' conception of Sintra's Labyrinth to another. Was the order important? Part of some code? Would a different order of progression be expected to have another result from any other? Now that he was free of the dreamt of Halls of Ignorance, he was free to speculate and wonder about the intellectual conceit that had birthed this process. He was also free to proceed into a realm that he could immediately identify as none other than that of Malice.
Here, Woe was confronted by scenes of the most contentious periods of his recent life. From his deliberate humiliation at the hands of the masked mage lord during the WInter's Masquerade in Rynmere, to Fridgar forcing him to betray his duty to the Andaris authorities. His betrayal at the hands of Emma Heen, the battle with the Lotharro giant in the slave pits of Augiery. There were many and more incidents that were shown to him, which tested his nerve. The images he saw or rather the impression of them upon his own mind, forced by the mind of the dreamer, were almost as real as if he'd been there in the moment.
The Halls of Malice here were a brambled path, covered by shrubs with thorns and pale branches, tipped with bits of blood of those who'd presumably rushed through headlong, without heeding their senses. Had Woe been a less disciplined man, he might've done the same. Come to that, he'd been tested and failed before, yet what stayed his approach was a cautious skepticism of his surroundings.
Yet he knew he must at least entertain this illusion if he was to proceed to the center, where the dreamer lie to unlock him from this step in the reverie. He moved, suppressing the rancor he felt as old wounds were torn bare. He formed small cuts on his wrists, which seemed to effuse with the very fury and defiance that he'd felt in those lived in and dreamed of moments. He saw his enemies weaked as he proceeded ahead, cowering before him. In his hand, one of the thorned vines turned into a barbed whip in his hand, wrapping itself around his wrist for purchase.
He considered each poor pitiful illusion, thus knowing he must consider it as if it were the person he imagined. He saw Llyr in the heat of the moment, the denied company of Emelia Enners dangled before him as he lay pinned, helpless and threatened. It was certainly a reversal, and one that called to mind a switch in circumstances that had occurred in reality. Yet he denied his anger, and let this fictitious version of Llyr slip his mind. Llyr laughed mockingly after him as he turned his back, moving through more brambles, his arm solidly at his side, yet tensing in a sudden call to violence.
He wanted to lash backward, to carve a bloody past of Llyr's corpse and take what was his in that moment.
"Poor Woe. So hopeless." Said Llyr's shadow. And Woe could hear the echoes of words he'd spoken once with affection, now with mockery. It was enough to turn him around, and so he did so. But he stayed his own hand.
There, he saw Llyr, in the worst possible light he'd ever imagined. A nosey archmage, trying to insinuate himself into all manner of situations and lives, and delivering a wrecking ball of chaos in his wake. Woe spoke to him, conjuring the words he knew would have wounded Llyr in thse moments. "Daft boy. "
Instead of shrinking from this challenge, Woe's malice in his tone did only more to bolster the phantasm's strength. Woe thought he'd sighted the dreamer beyond. And as he approached the illusory Llyr, he discarded his sadness and anger. He felt it melt from him, as Chamadarst's blessing fell upon his shoulders in a mantle that ensured that his own neutrality could never be coerced to aggression. Thus saved by his patron, he pushed past the threatening Llyr, and proceeded to his own doppelganger, who lay beaten and bruised on the bed. Woe lowered himself into the bed, and shifted through the body that was there. Thus he was transported to another Hall, through the dreamer that he'd found.
Here, Woe was confronted by scenes of the most contentious periods of his recent life. From his deliberate humiliation at the hands of the masked mage lord during the WInter's Masquerade in Rynmere, to Fridgar forcing him to betray his duty to the Andaris authorities. His betrayal at the hands of Emma Heen, the battle with the Lotharro giant in the slave pits of Augiery. There were many and more incidents that were shown to him, which tested his nerve. The images he saw or rather the impression of them upon his own mind, forced by the mind of the dreamer, were almost as real as if he'd been there in the moment.
The Halls of Malice here were a brambled path, covered by shrubs with thorns and pale branches, tipped with bits of blood of those who'd presumably rushed through headlong, without heeding their senses. Had Woe been a less disciplined man, he might've done the same. Come to that, he'd been tested and failed before, yet what stayed his approach was a cautious skepticism of his surroundings.
Yet he knew he must at least entertain this illusion if he was to proceed to the center, where the dreamer lie to unlock him from this step in the reverie. He moved, suppressing the rancor he felt as old wounds were torn bare. He formed small cuts on his wrists, which seemed to effuse with the very fury and defiance that he'd felt in those lived in and dreamed of moments. He saw his enemies weaked as he proceeded ahead, cowering before him. In his hand, one of the thorned vines turned into a barbed whip in his hand, wrapping itself around his wrist for purchase.
He considered each poor pitiful illusion, thus knowing he must consider it as if it were the person he imagined. He saw Llyr in the heat of the moment, the denied company of Emelia Enners dangled before him as he lay pinned, helpless and threatened. It was certainly a reversal, and one that called to mind a switch in circumstances that had occurred in reality. Yet he denied his anger, and let this fictitious version of Llyr slip his mind. Llyr laughed mockingly after him as he turned his back, moving through more brambles, his arm solidly at his side, yet tensing in a sudden call to violence.
He wanted to lash backward, to carve a bloody past of Llyr's corpse and take what was his in that moment.
"Poor Woe. So hopeless." Said Llyr's shadow. And Woe could hear the echoes of words he'd spoken once with affection, now with mockery. It was enough to turn him around, and so he did so. But he stayed his own hand.
There, he saw Llyr, in the worst possible light he'd ever imagined. A nosey archmage, trying to insinuate himself into all manner of situations and lives, and delivering a wrecking ball of chaos in his wake. Woe spoke to him, conjuring the words he knew would have wounded Llyr in thse moments. "Daft boy. "
Instead of shrinking from this challenge, Woe's malice in his tone did only more to bolster the phantasm's strength. Woe thought he'd sighted the dreamer beyond. And as he approached the illusory Llyr, he discarded his sadness and anger. He felt it melt from him, as Chamadarst's blessing fell upon his shoulders in a mantle that ensured that his own neutrality could never be coerced to aggression. Thus saved by his patron, he pushed past the threatening Llyr, and proceeded to his own doppelganger, who lay beaten and bruised on the bed. Woe lowered himself into the bed, and shifted through the body that was there. Thus he was transported to another Hall, through the dreamer that he'd found.
