90th Zida, 718
It was dark.
Soon, in very few trials it would be Cylus and then, it would be darker and all the time. Darkness, of course, always meant more death, more people to ferry more souls to judge. Darkness was where Xiur's power was weakest, where despair resided and isolation held court, reining over the lonely. And there were so very many of them. Such differences between them all, these mortal souls, such great chasms which caused wars and conflict and always, always, led to death.
And yet, in death, they were so very much the same.
Death was the great leveller, of course, harbinger of equality at its most beautiful - and most final.
Usually.
The Immortal of Death frowned at that thought. Usually final. Not always and, in this instance there was something which was calling to him. The Corridor he walked down was long, his footsteps echoing as he walked. Next to him, his sisters stepping in jagged unison, the echo of their footfalls a melody made from disparate parts, like a mingling of two sounds which would be entirely unpleasant to the ears if it wasn't so very beautiful.
There was something not right, something not balanced and he ~ they ~ could feel it. These corridors that his daughter had led mortals down in his brother's game were well walked by Death's feet and he knew each tile in this endless corridor of dreams. Every door led to another dreamer or another dream. Some led to Domains, others to places unknown or unknowable, perhaps. It was all just symbolism, he was sure.
His reverie was broken when they arrived at The Door. It was the one they needed, he knew. He was, after all, the Opener of the Ways. Or it was one of the things that he was. So, with a grim smile directed at his sisters he opened The Door and there, they saw them.
The Mortals.
Soon, in very few trials it would be Cylus and then, it would be darker and all the time. Darkness, of course, always meant more death, more people to ferry more souls to judge. Darkness was where Xiur's power was weakest, where despair resided and isolation held court, reining over the lonely. And there were so very many of them. Such differences between them all, these mortal souls, such great chasms which caused wars and conflict and always, always, led to death.
And yet, in death, they were so very much the same.
Death was the great leveller, of course, harbinger of equality at its most beautiful - and most final.
Usually.
The Immortal of Death frowned at that thought. Usually final. Not always and, in this instance there was something which was calling to him. The Corridor he walked down was long, his footsteps echoing as he walked. Next to him, his sisters stepping in jagged unison, the echo of their footfalls a melody made from disparate parts, like a mingling of two sounds which would be entirely unpleasant to the ears if it wasn't so very beautiful.
There was something not right, something not balanced and he ~ they ~ could feel it. These corridors that his daughter had led mortals down in his brother's game were well walked by Death's feet and he knew each tile in this endless corridor of dreams. Every door led to another dreamer or another dream. Some led to Domains, others to places unknown or unknowable, perhaps. It was all just symbolism, he was sure.
His reverie was broken when they arrived at The Door. It was the one they needed, he knew. He was, after all, the Opener of the Ways. Or it was one of the things that he was. So, with a grim smile directed at his sisters he opened The Door and there, they saw them.
The Mortals.