There are the nightmares which people have, even the night terrors of the few – then there are the foul dread things haunting survivors of the Mourning. They do not remember that last day in the Kingdom of Cyre. They do not want to remember that last hour just before …
Gaerrec does not remember those moments, — those eons. He repels them with each near breath taken. He fights them with each step. He lays down to nights with a crystal clear gaze, which moving rapidly or lying still - gazes soullessly forward. The horrors from which his eyes cannot hide, from which his mind cannot run-away, wrenched his eyelids open; in that state they remain, unyielding, unblinking, and drained of color. But the 20th of Olarune, 994, will not drain away. The colors of the Mourning ... will ... not ... fade!
It is near dawn again in Stormreach. Gaerrec's shallow breathing begins to quicken - though it does not go deeper. He stands in the upper palisade tower watching the sun rise and set. He cannot move, for his feet are part of the great wooden beams holding up the corner of the hastily constructed fort. He sees the oncoming armies. His throat is dry and he cannot call out. He tries to signal the other watchman - a warforged right in front of him. Nothing. There is no response.
His horror mounts and anxiety births into the pit of his gut. It squirms and struggles. He wants to know what it is, to study it, to dissect it. Gaerrec wants to be far away in the safety of the labs with their unending revelations of magical secrets, the science of life. He wants. He desires, and it burns so cold, so ragingly hot. He whimpers. He feels it. He cannot escape it. The magic – it is coming.
The sun explodes from his gut. It explodes from everything. Pure white fire in a lavender haze ripping from the farthest north to the farthest south. The land is pulled and thrown, twisted and rent asunder. The sky weeps in rainbow rages of howling wild forces. Timeless fog rolls down upon them and then out through the armies fallen before him. Men and machines, beasts and spells - they all go insane, corrupt, and incorruptible.
Wild magic courses through those gathered below in the field, transmuting them in both form and substance into monsters that were never meant to be possible by any god. Others still stand, their eyes unseeing, their hands unfeeling, their minds restrained as their flesh is frozen in living death. And the magics, the enchantments, they walk among the never dead. They assail one another or the newly made monsters that were once warforged, or horses, or men. Standing ready to do battle, they now screech as monsters - or worse. Many simply stood, or lay, bleeding, dripping, oozing - unable to move, unable to die, and unable to be alive.
Gripped in terror, Gaerrec reaches with all his might. He reaches beyond the pit of his gut, beyond the ghost of life and man. He grasps the warp and weft of magic ... and ... he ... screams the most torturous runes. He gurgles glyphs through foaming lips. He rips the souls of living spells and melds them into himself. Upon his body, charred into coal and dust, he crushes vial after vial of healing potion. When they are gone - unknowing, unfeeling, and uncaring, he crushes more vials ... of oil of repair. The shards of the glass gauge his hands. Blood floods from every pore drenching his clothes in the blackest blue before it churns to thick crimson sludge. And still the magic wails in his mind.
The wood of the palisade splinters beneath his feet. The splinters, in thousands, drive themselves through the soles of his boots, careening between tendon and muscle, through artery and intestine and turning into slender living vines. Magically melted steel, from the uniforms, weapons, and shields of those upon the field who need them no longer, smashes into the dry glowing embers of his burning body, and become enmeshed - weaving into the fabric of his bones. While sluggishly, the potions and oils, which he released, seep into his body. The boiling vapors sooth his charred flesh and organs.
No longer man, and not quite warforged, with one foot moving at a time, and eons between each agonizing step, he walks. He walks as he does every time he sleeps. He walks toward the fog. He walks toward Breeland. He, as he does every night, walks out of the Mournland, out of his terror, and wakes to the first rays of the morning sun. He wakes shaking. He wakes freezing. He wakes covered in the blood tinted gel that now passed through his pores as sweat. But he wakes. The terror may not forgive him. It may not release him. And It will Never have him.
Gaerrec sits up for a few moments. Then he launches himself to the day. The creak and grown of steel and bone, oak and gem, rise to stand on feet once more. He washes. He gets dressed. Then he slides down into the tavern, for a cold whiskey and a listen for promises of secret power, and of life, hidden in the forgotten places of Xen'drik.
