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I had a dream a few nights ago.
I dreamed a man stood before me in the finery of an era long since gone. Scarabs cast in gold decorated his fingers and ears; waterfalls of burgundy brocade cascaded off of him to fall on the floor in pools of wine-coloured silk. A headdress in the shape of three sunrays was pinned to his ink-black hair.
His face was hidden behind a golden mask, but despite this, I couldn’t help but feel like I knew him. Trusted him. Loved him.
He took me by the hands and seemed to stare at me for hours. Gently, he touched my face, as if he were afraid I would disappear.
He led me to a pool of water that was still and clear as glass.
“I’ve seen your poor lot in life,” he said. “And in honour of our old friendship, I would bring you into the ranks of House Dagoth, to restore this once-great house to her former glory.”
He gestured for me to look at my reflection. In the water, my skin was grey; as my reflection opened its eyes, I saw they were red- and that a third had opened in the center of my forehead.
“You would never hunger again,” he said. “I would cure you of your…” he glanced at my arm, at the lightly tanned skin. “Condition. You would have a family in the house and a friend in me.”
“Come, Nerevar. Climb Red Mountain and come join me.”
His offer is tempting.