Role

Chapter 6

They stood on a towering hill and all of Thera could be seen, or so it
seemed, for distance had no laws in this world of dreams. She was a
silhouette against the deepening sky, one hand raised to the heavens
urging forth roiling dark clouds while her other hand held the medallion
of Twist in a small clenched fist as strong as oak.

From the north came the army of the phoenix in their burning charge,
rushing across the deserted imperial lands with their warcries screaming
for vengeance. From the south came the mighty wolves of the village.
Their weaker wolves had been culled and now the strongest wolves led by
Ohbehb led their assault. In the west the powerful Archmage Arkellin
prepared his powerful magic in his tribunal tower, his eyes on the band
of Nexun who made their stand on the towering hill. In the east the
windwalkers moved in and out of their trees, some with a mix of curiosity
and others hungrily with eyes on the Druid Priestess of Twist who called
forth from the nature they saw as theirs to claim. And through it all,
in a place that had no place, Charine watched and waited... and for the
time being did nothing.

The priestess stood ready with others who made their stand for the
balance. The komodo dragon Yohnerk and Aertia looked to the south. The
crafty fox Thwartilkan was there with the warrior follower of Twist,
Cezmin who looked to the north. Zuga and Chokrin prepared for epic
elemental battle and looked to the west. With eyes to the east waited
the bard Garanth with Skeena the Transfigurist whose magic was no
stranger to battle. They came and in the midst of it all, the priestess
of Twist called forth bolt after bolt of lightning, words in a constant
chant to Twist.

She sought to go to the sides that needed her most, but suddenly she
could not move. She looked down and her feet were mired in blood, her
own blood, and she was sinking. The forest witch cackled and the treant
said nothing. She went to draw her weapon, but could not lift it through
the bloody sludge that had rose to her chest. Surrounded by those who
needed her, she cried out in desperation. Looking to the skies, she gave
a litany of prayers as she screamed for Twist. Her words became
gibberish, her prayers lost, as she choked to death on her own pool of
blood that and rose above her head covering her.

She woke. The meadow was empty and the sun warm. Still she shivered at
the toll the conflict had taken on her body. She sat there, pondering
the need for self-preservation. For the rest of her days, perhaps made
longer now, the dream would always linger in the back of her mind.