Richard took his position just beneath the ornate, raised platform, standing closely next to the mysterious artifact known as the “Skull of Dreams.” With rapt attention, he watched every unfolding event. Around him, attendees exuded an air of calmness, but beneath this tranquil exterior, there was a discernible sense of expectation and tension.
Stepping forward for presentation were two elves: a male and a female. Their attire was notably distressed, showing evident signs of wear, tear, and neglect. Hidden beneath their raggedy clothing, their skins were etched with a multitude of scars – each a painful reminder of the relentless torments they had faced. Some of these scars harked back to previous sacrificial ceremonies, while others were brutal memories of various “experiments” and “tests” linked to the arcane powers of the “Skull of Dreams.”
When they first stepped into the opulent confines of the hall, their faces bore a hollow, emotionless look. Yet, as their eyes met the sight of the Saint and the “Skull of Dreams” strategically placed below the platform, sheer dread overtook them. Their bodies betrayed hints of a desire to resist or flee, yet any semblance of resistance was quashed by just a brief, commanding gaze from the Saint. Rendered immobile by this overpowering presence, they could only watch as a disciple, garbed in a somber grey robe and brandishing a razor-sharp ritual dagger, advanced menacingly toward them.
During the somber ritual, a dagger, uniquely polished using fresh snow to an almost reflective sheen, was the central instrument. The annihilators, their expressions filled with intense anticipation yet unspoken intent, closely observed the proceedings. With deliberate precision, the sharp blade made its way into the soft flesh of the two elves, leaving marks on their arms, thighs, and backs. Despite the depth of the incisions, none were designed to be fatal. It seemed as if the primary intent was to inflict the highest degree of torment and agony while preserving their lives.
Under the unwavering and intense scrutiny of the Saint, the individuals marked for “sacrifice” were left paralyzed with fear and anguish, so much so that they couldn’t utter a scream or attempt to fight back. They were forcibly positioned by a group of men draped in somber gray robes right next to a formidable and heavily built cart. The depth of their torment was evident not through any audible cries, but rather in the grotesque contortions that marred their features.
The room, lit only by the dim, flickering candles, cast eerie shadows against the stone walls. As the elite priests cautiously approached the Skull of Dreams, a hush fell over the hall. Even the lowest ranking cultists recognized the weight of the moment. The energy emitted by the skull caused a hair-raising sensation, palpable even to those standing at a distance.
The first priest to step forward was Dumont. With an air of authority, he extended his hand and placed his fingers delicately on the goat head’s carved surface. The moment they made contact, his body went rigid. The muscles on his face contorted in a silent scream, and his eyes rolled back. The entire chamber watched in fearful anticipation.
After what seemed like an eternity, Dumont removed his hand, gasping for breath. He appeared profoundly altered, his eyes glazed over as if he had witnessed visions of both unspeakable horrors and wonders. Without uttering a word, he stepped back, signaling the next priest to approach.
Each priest’s experience was different. Some wept uncontrollably, others whispered in tongues unknown to the observers, while a few simply fell into a deep trance, only to awaken with a newfound purpose.
Among those observing, Richard felt his heart race with a mix of fear and intrigue. The power and ancient knowledge contained within the Skull of Dreams was undeniable. However, the risks involved were equally evident. As more priests interacted with the Skull, Richard tried to glean from their reactions any insight into the mysteries they were exposed to.
Meanwhile, outside the chamber, the elven blood was being meticulously collected and bottled. Couriers were being prepared to transport the precious substance to the various city-states. The Cult of the Nameless Ones was infiltrating every corner of the world with their twisted dreams.
As the ritual in the hall concluded, Richard decided that he couldn’t stand idly by. He would need to delve deeper into the operations of the cult and, if possible, put an end to their dark ambitions. Whatever the Skull of Dreams had unveiled to those priests, it was clear that its influence was not just confined to this chamber. It was a key to a realm of power and chaos that threatened to consume the very fabric of reality.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Richard mustered all the courage he could and took a bold step forward. He reached out, his fingers cautiously touching the horn of the ancient relic known as the “Skull of Dreams.”
As soon as he made contact, a shrill, ear-piercing scream reverberated through the air, jarring his very soul. From within the ornate goat head, a violent surge of energy exploded, crashing into Richard like a tidal wave. It felt as though an immensely powerful force was overtaking him, pulling and stretching his consciousness from the confines of his body. Richard, a devoted disciple of the Annihilation Cult, experienced a sensation as if his spirit was being sucked out, rising swiftly into the vast expanse above. The world around him grew darker, and as he observed from this strange, disembodied viewpoint, he saw his own physical form beginning to topple backwards. Thankfully, his fellow cult members were quick to respond, catching his limp body and gently guiding him to safety.
Amidst his disoriented state, Richard’s gaze was drawn to an unexpected sight: a peculiar stuffed rabbit doll. Moving with uncanny grace, the stuffed animal seemed to be sneaking around, deliberately staying within the shadow cast by Richard’s collapsing form. Its actions suggested it was attempting to remain hidden, possibly to avoid being spotted by the revered, saintly figures present in the chamber.
A rabbit? In a place like this? Why? The sight perplexed Richard. However, before he could delve deeper into this mystery, his thoughts were abruptly interrupted.
The elusive dream realm of the Nameless Ones was now unveiling its secrets to him.
……
The room had undergone a remarkable transformation.
Duncan felt an undeniable alteration in the ambiance. While at first glance everything appeared the same, there was an intangible change that took place the moment the clock’s hands signaled nine. The “reflection” of the “Vanished” had evolved into something altogether unfamiliar.
His gaze darted to the wall clock, and he noticed an intriguing reversal. Instead of its previous anomalous counterclockwise movement, the clock’s hands now moved as one would expect, following the natural clockwise course. Objects within the room, which had been anomalously positioned due to their proximity to a mirror, seemed to subtly revert to their rightful places. The once heavy, suffocating air grew fresher, and when Duncan peered out of the window, the previously indistinct ship deck and hull now stood out crisply. However, the spectral appearance of the sea and sky, reminiscent of a spiritual dimension, had been replaced by an endless expanse of darkness, punctuated only by a thick fog.
This environment was no longer a mere “reflection.” It had transformed into the surreal dream of Goathead navigating through the lost dream of Atlantis — another realm of the Vanished.
But Duncan’s focus wasn’t immediately on the changed surroundings.
“The cultists invoked the ‘Skull of Dreams’ by drenching that goat head in elvish blood,” Duncan mused, his face contorted in a mix of wonder and disgust. “To my astonishment, the ritual worked.”
From within the nearby mirror, where she had been confined post-transformation, Agatha’s voice emanated. “Rabbi’s account makes me believe that rather than the ritual successfully activating the ‘Skull of Dreams’, the Skull retaliated in fury, condemning the ritualist. But to these cultists, such a ‘punishment’ is perceived as a high honor.”
“It appears the elves who were used for their blood remain safe for the moment. The cultists probably see the value in keeping them alive, milking them regularly for their blood. But by the time this ritual reaches its final form, countless elves might meet their end aboard this ship.”
Duncan remained contemplative for a moment, his face etched with concern. Turning towards the mirror, he sought Agatha’s image.
Although Agatha’s visage was sharp and clear in the glass, the backdrop of the real-world Bright Star was conspicuously absent. The reflection of Lucretia too was nowhere to be found.
She must have ventured into the “dreamworld” from Wind Harbor.
“Lucy,” he called out, “what’s your status?”
“The geographical gap between the Vanished and Wind Harbor doesn’t seem to halt the Dream of the Nameless One. I’ve found myself back in this woodland area, with Shirley accompanying me,” came the reply from Lucretia, resonating within Duncan’s mind. “Rabbi and I have established contact. She’s still possessing a cultist, and her cover remains uncompromised.”
Duncan pondered for a beat, then asked, “What’s your take on the ritual they conducted?”
In an environment that seemed both archaic and advanced, Lucretia voiced her incredulity and frustration, “We’re talking about a cadre of profoundly misguided individuals, employing equally deranged techniques to engage with remnants of the Old Gods. Their thought process is warped, their methodology fundamentally flawed, and the sacrifices they make are immeasurable. And yet, perplexingly, they seem to achieve some measure of what they aim for. As someone dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge, I can’t fathom or condone their actions.” With her countenance reflecting a myriad of emotions from disbelief to disgust, she continued, “Imagine a group of clueless individuals taking blunt instruments to a malfunctioning advanced computational device, and against all odds, somehow making it work. The sheer audacity of it…”
Struggling momentarily to find the appropriate descriptor, she finally blurted out, “It’s a mockery to all sentient life forms!”
Duncan responded in a contemplative tone, “However bizarre their approach may appear, one can’t deny that they did achieve something, even if it seems like they’re playing a perilous game with their lives.”
The depth of emotion displayed on Lucretia’s face seemed to intensify.
Recognizing the escalating intensity on the face of the woman often referred to as the “Sea Witch”, Duncan diplomatically steered the conversation in another direction. “It’s becoming increasingly apparent that there’s a multitude of these ‘Goatheads’, yet only a scant few might still possess clarity of mind. I’m inclined to believe the only such ‘sane’ specimen could be my ‘first mate’.”
He took a moment to organize his thoughts and then added, “Given that the sculpture which the cultists hold lacks a comprehensive sense of cognition, it might explain why their brazen ritual bore some fruit. The ‘Skull of Dreams’ seems to respond purely on impulse, and it just so happened that one of its primal responses allowed these Annihilators to access the Dream of the Nameless One.”
“We’re still in the dark as to whether this ritualistic process was a chance discovery by the Annihilators or if it was an arcane knowledge passed down by those mysterious Enders. And, while we might be close to decoding the cultists’ mode of ‘dream-entry’, the method the Suntists employ remains shrouded in secrecy…”
Lucretia pondered, “Do you suppose the disciples of the Black Sun might have a ‘Goathead’ of their own?”
Duncan responded, furrowing his brows, “It’s within the realm of possibilities. However, my gut feeling says it’s probably more intricate than that. Up till now, only two varieties of Suntists have ventured into the Dream of the Nameless One: the singularly seen ‘Sun Heir’ and the eerily inhuman ‘Sun Remnants’. We’ve yet to witness regular human priests or followers of the Sun making an appearance. It’s evident that whether they’re ‘Heirs’ or ‘Remnants’, they belong to a classification distinct from humans.”
Lucretia added, “They resemble ‘ancient god derivatives’, entities with a spiritual architecture that’s a stark contrast to that of humans.”
Duncan concluded, “Their method of entering the Dream of the Nameless One could be worlds apart from what the Annihilators employ.”
