Last thought memories of a time not so long ago when the winds hastened with vigilant temperance. Surrounded by endless trees near the edge of the old dirt road leading out of Britain. Kneeling against an old gravestone I feel my armor beginning to dig into my shoulders. Wavering in and our of focus, I can only make out the markings of a name from the glimmer of the campfire.
The epitaph read; "Here lies Sir Henry Florence, who fought and died for his brothers."
I slowly rose to my feet and I could only help but grin as I stood here standing against time itself. The adventures I have had felt like the best dreams to ever come true. The endless battles weighing heavily upon my soul, but not this day. This day I ride towards the east, and I hope I don't ever stop, I thought to myself.
A bottle of ale drops to the ground and the warrior passes out on the cold dew wet grass.
Dreams. Horrible dreams. The ones they call nightmares in the passing of the cold nights atop dagger isle. A tremble in the wake, the ground shaking furthermore below. Falling deeper through the abysmal trenches of the subconscious. Pools of blood ripple like echoes of the violent screams of the past. The dark ones all around and outnumbering as I dive for my last remaining sword. As they drag me deeper into the abyss I barely manage to grasp my blade and sever the devils arm.
Ascending. Rising beyond the clouds. Reaching my hand out to the sky above..one, two, blinks and I awake.
