Dreams are the Voice of Life

“We’re all heroes, Asleon; Some are just slower than others.”

-Grand Marshal Bureston Langley-

Without the influence of the hypnotist to guide me in the waning hours of the night, I stumbled through a torrential onslaught of visions flashing faster than I could comprehend in my own amateur attempt at mimicking his craft. I see Anetho Dawnpride leaping from the waterfall to certain death, only to wash up on a desolate shore and wander aimlessly towards the infantile reconstruction effort that was to be Quel’Thalas. I see Jaedn Scrywind, buried deep in tomes and sorcery beyond what I thought her capable of. There is a family, commoners that would send their child to the clergy in hopes of a better life – unknowingly damning him to a tragic fate… and then I see his last living friend, my friend, clad in armor upon his knees.

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The Grand Marshal kneels atop the spire of Icecrown Citadel, pledging himself before our Prince as I had in days relived in frequent memories. His resolve has been shattered, his will bent, and his mind broken before the storm. He surrenders himself to Arthas, ignoring the broken remnants of the Argent Crusade and the reanimated corpses of it’s greatest champions behind him. He keeps his head low as he speaks, asserting that he has no cause left to crusade – no realm left to defend. He begs that it be our Lord Menethil that takes him, as he had in life. Lightning streaks across the skies and there is a tense silence in the aftermath of an explosive thunderclap.

WoWScrnShot_071315_172220Without words, the Lich King raises Frostmourne to the skies above and ensnares Langley’s soul. He is pulled upright by invisible forces, stunned. His skin grows pale and his eyes fall sullen. His rifle falls to the ground, cracking the ice as surely as his own spirit was under the dark influence of the runic blade. As the violet beam fades, he falls lifelessly to the ground. Nothing follows this display – he is not raised as another husk in the unstoppable army that he fought against; Rather he is collected by a deceased Blood Elf – and led away from the Frozen Throne, down the thousand steps to the base of the citadel where he is laid to rest at the very feet of his most hated enemies. The blizzards bury his body in snow, his flesh slowly stripping away to the bone – and they to dust, leaving only the armor of a fallen kingdom to mark his tale.

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I see him again, in all his splendor at the forefront of the Alliance-Horde conflict as a resolved leader. Hardened by his many defeats, and tempered for war. He stands as one of many vanguards of the Alliance, having found acceptance among Stormwind’s finest. His loyalties are tied to men rather than nations, having shed the shackles that so bound Anetho to his fate, and carves out his own without fear of the future, and consideration of the past. The epitome of all that Bureston could ever be is represented as he signals the charge that would ensure the foundation of an Alliance stronghold in a foreign realm.

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He would always remember the Prince he swore to serve, the kingdom he’d failed, and the friends he had lost… Though their memories would drive him ever onward, not as the ‘Dark Knight of Lordaeron’ but as a paragon of chivalry and justice. The very same he embodied when first Asleon De’Forte had met him in service of the crown. In time, the attributes that made him great would cement his legend… and fill the coffers of his heavenly reward.

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Simultaneously, I see Bureston, Liaskar, Asleon, and the many people of Lordaeron praising the return of their King, Arthas Menethil, showering him in peacebloom as he joins a just crusade in the name of Humanity. The celebratory cheers are deafening as he strides towards the gates, an army at his back. Many know his rule to be founded in wisdom and strength; Exercising a fair, but strong, hand in his affairs. Through him, Lordaeron has prospered and remains the seat of power for the Alliance. A reality made possible through the intervention of fate… in a world without the influence of Ner’zhul, Medivh, or the resulting tragedies of their intrusion. A world bought through a savagely fierce battle and secured in sacrifice. One that neither Asleon, or Bureston as I know them shall ever be afforded… and yet, just as realized and deserved for them as the world I now wake to is to me.

“That which was must always be.”

-Bronze Dragonflight Philosophy-

Each image I’ve observed, I know in my heart to be real. Parallel entities alongside further parallels defying the natural laws governing the study of chronomancy… and the rigid tenants of the Bronze Dragons, demonstrating that the flow of time, in it’s own isolated instance of existence is perhaps the only truth to define the word ‘reality’. I wipe the sweat from my brow and acknowledge the sentiments of each world, each divergent possibility in which I do not exist as I am today, as a victory that was never required.

But today, in this world, in -my- reality… I am still the Harbinger of Despair; and my work is far from over. Having awoken from a sleepless dream, to forge myself anew, I prepare to entangle myself in the world once again

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~ by anethodawnpride on August 28, 2015.

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