[This is a recurring dream that Callas has been having for years, one of three or four that have been coming clearer and sharper as time goes on. It might be just a nightmare. In fact, we all rather hope it's just a nightmare. It might also be a glimpse of the future. Who can tell?]
Callas stood alone in a large room. The walls were white stone, and there was an altar before her. She was wearing a heavy robe, made out of white silk. She frowned. What was she doing here? Where was she? The room was silent except for her breathing, and her hair was unbound, spilling over her shoulders and down her back.
She took a step forward, and realized that she was barefoot and the floor was wet. She looked down. The floor was awash with blood, and her robe was wicking it up into itself, staining her with blood from the knees down.
Then she looked around.
Bodies were piled everywhere. Some looked burned, others had vines wrapped around their throats and had evidently been strangled to death. Some appeared to have had the life sucked out of them. And a few seemed to simply have had their throats cut.
Humans, elves, drow, and a few orcs, all lying dead around her. She realized that she was holding something in her right hand, and glanced down. A dagger, crusted with drying blood, her hand and wrist also coated.
The knife clattered to the floor as she dropped it from her suddenly nerveless hand. She called out, "Galvin? Gavião? Dream? Anyone? Is anyone there?"
There was no reply. Nothing lived in the room except her.
She sank to her knees, heedless of the blood pooling around her, her face filled with confusion. "Mother...I don't understand."
Still no answer. Callas wrapped her arms around herself and stayed still, staring at the death all around her. She closed her eyes and whispered, "I don't understand..."
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