Vandelin has dreamt more often about the fall of Hasmal Circle in the past two weeks than he has for the past two years.
The confusion and chaos of the battle had figured prominently in his nightmares for months after his and his fellow rebels had escaped--but there had been worse awaiting them on the long, hostile road to Redcliffe Village, and his dreams of the uprising had gradually been pushed out altogether by darker, bloodier dreams of the fallen throughout the Hinterlands. His mind, determined to torment him, had learned to do far better than reminding him of the defending templars and loyalists all collapsing in magical sleep while he'd ushered the rebels frantically out through the gates--even as he'd looked back at his cousin's prone body on the stone floor, prepared never to lay eyes on him again.
He dreams of empty, hollow eye sockets now, streaming with blood. He dreams of Myr's voice rending the air with bestial screams. Tonight, he dreams himself into a Circle tower where every door and gate is triple-locked, where none of the templars have eyes to track him with, but every one somehow holds his phylactery in hand. He has nothing but his staff and its bladed end, but he knows from experience now that a lock is easier melted off than picked.
just...a general cw here for eye gore, I'm so sorry
The confusion and chaos of the battle had figured prominently in his nightmares for months after his and his fellow rebels had escaped--but there had been worse awaiting them on the long, hostile road to Redcliffe Village, and his dreams of the uprising had gradually been pushed out altogether by darker, bloodier dreams of the fallen throughout the Hinterlands. His mind, determined to torment him, had learned to do far better than reminding him of the defending templars and loyalists all collapsing in magical sleep while he'd ushered the rebels frantically out through the gates--even as he'd looked back at his cousin's prone body on the stone floor, prepared never to lay eyes on him again.
He dreams of empty, hollow eye sockets now, streaming with blood. He dreams of Myr's voice rending the air with bestial screams. Tonight, he dreams himself into a Circle tower where every door and gate is triple-locked, where none of the templars have eyes to track him with, but every one somehow holds his phylactery in hand. He has nothing but his staff and its bladed end, but he knows from experience now that a lock is easier melted off than picked.
He sets to work.