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You are standing on a road, it is familiar, you know it is somewhere near your home. The sky is grey casting a soft, silver, light on the land around. The area is empty, and disturbingly quiet. As you gaze down the road, almost afraid to move, you feel a gentle pulling, as though a string were tied to your gut.

The scene blurs and the road begins winding away beneath you though you don’t feel like you’re moving at all. Towns, and farms, cities and rivers pass by – all empty, all silent. Passing a final city you move through a low mountain pass, into a land that emanates decay and death. The road continues on, and you continue following it at the breakneck pace. At one point you see a ruined city in the distance, seven towers, crumbling and ruined, dominate it. You feel some affinity, some importance there, but it’s only a moment before it is out of sight.

The trip stops at the foot of a tall mountain, barren and grey. A tall cloaked figure stands before and to your left his back towards you. Just as you go to mouth words, the figure begins to turn, its cloak remaining firmly fixed, as if it were a rotating statue. As its face comes into view you are greatly shocked and a little frightened, where eyes should be is only a smooth curve of deathly pale flesh. A voice in your head whispers, “Follow” and somehow you find yourself wanting to obey.

Up the hill you climb, the cloak in front of you still refusing to move, you begin to feel that somehow this creature is both here, and in some way also not here at all. You pass into a cave, which turns into a smooth tunnel boring into the mountain. You follow the winding way, passing by closed doors and dark openings. Eventually you pass through an archway – at first you think it a mouth, with sharp jagged teeth barely above your head. It somehow escapes your notice that the cloaked creature passed through without bending, despite being much taller than you. Through the arch is a shelf of rock inside a deep shaft. At the top of the shaft you can see the sky – well, a sky, if one were to torture the sky itself, turning it shades of blood and black, and making it swirl and dance like an oil slick.

A deep voice intones,You must come; there is work for you. Take my gift and make haste.You awaken in your bed, a strange object held tightly in your hand, and the desperate need to travel in your heart.

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A Dark Weft loserman