Dreams of War (Warrior Route)

"And there, over those blasted hills, nestled in their rat holes, stand the enemy! The mewling sons of whores, who dare stand before our blades and axes, thirsting to quench their hunger for battle with the blood of proud Darri men! There stand the bastards who think that their giants, demons and fell beasts could best the greatest of our armies, made of proud Jondor, Arsi and Maraku stock, the indomitable Champions of Gaia, the Arms of the Mountain Tribes! They dare stand on our soil, **** our kin, burn our homes and take our women! They dare stand before us today, the vile mass of puny shits that they are, thinking they can drown out our cry for vengeance! I say unto them, 'Dra åt helvete!' What say you, men of Darri?"

The air was filled with thunderous roar that echoed through the ages, as the million strong mass of armor clad bodies raise their weapons and shields towards the heavens, shouting from the very core of their souls as a river of darkness came crashing forth.

"Döden till tyrannen!"

Weevil woke with a start as the servant's bell began to clang. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he took a moment to hurriedly check himself and the immediate surrounds of his rickety bedside. There was neither sword nor shield, nor were there any traces of the metallic sheen of the armor he thought he wore. He was still his regular nude self, and it prompted a loud sigh of relief. Convinced that the strange vision was but a dream, the **** immediately relaxed to prepare himself for the new day that cast warm summer rays through his window. He stretched his tall and muscular build as he stood up right and washed his face by the nearby basin, peering into the simple mirror before him after. It had come again, these mysterious and vivid dreams. For a number of days it had come to haunt him so. Each one was as different and as nonsensical as the other. It was a perplexing and maddening experience that left him sweating and writhing in his sleep, and he had thought that perhaps he might have contracted some form of disease or curse. Whenever he thinks about such a possibility again, however, it was highly unlikely. He had been very well cared for by his owner, her resident physician and the local priestesses of Angelmoor. Any sanctioned visits to any of them revealed no detrimental results. The Duchess, protective of her property as she was, had even ordered for him to be mentally shielded by magical spells on a daily basis. It so appeared that such a spell had no effect in holding back these dreams.

Oddly enough, they did not seem like nightmares of any disturbing nature. There was an underlying tone within each one, that seemed.... curious. It had triggered hidden interests in Weevil's heart, but there was nothing he could do for fear of reprisal. He had wanted to understand what they meant by consulting with the knowledge locked away in the Duchess' library, but no **** was allowed to read without the supervision of the cold hearted sage, Magna. She was the one who taught him how to read and write, but only as ordered by the Duchess. There was no way she would indulge in his curiosity due to his station, and subterfuge would mean heavy consequences. As much as he wanted to know about what he had just experienced, he would never even dare, even though he was one of the Duchess' favorites.

Dressing himself in the simple linen shirt, trousers and boots that lay on the chair next to the door, he went through his memory to check what it was that he had to do today, his mind still occupied in attempting to make sense of this latest mystery he had woken up from.