Black Shield

More and more of the afflicted began talking in a voice that Rasmodel recognised: the voice from his recurring dreams. It was a chorus transplanted from the land of dreams to a waking nightmare. Doubt burned in him. Was this epidemic his fault? Was it here for him?

He couldn't hide his relationship to the epidemic anymore. When he walked past the afflicted, they would move from incoherent to coherent. They would sit up and speak to him. The message was the same: "Submit to the Dreaming Stone." There were variations on the theme: use the Dreaming Stone; spread its energy; offer your mind to it.

Lord Rasmodel was resolved. He would never submit. Perhaps therein was the trap. Perhaps it was shrewd psychology to make him destroy the stone.

But destroy it he did. All it took was a single blow from his warhammer. A great and savage arc. As the crystal shattered and the shards punctured his skin, he felt peace. The voices were silenced. He knelt, bleeding and happy.

And then the aftershocks came.