I may have to learn more about you, the dragon thought as he absently nodded in response to Terenas’s continued babble. Yes, I may have to learn more. . . .
14
Krasus slept, slept deeper than he ever had, even as a small hatchling. He slept the sleep halfway between dreaming and something else, that eternal slumber from which not even the mightiest conqueror could awake. He slept knowing that each hour that passed slid him nearer and nearer to that sweet oblivion.
And while he slept, the dragon mage dreamed.
The first visions were murky ones, simple images from the sleeper’s subconscious. However, they were soon followed by more distinct and much starker apparitions. Winged figures both draconic and otherwise fluttered about, seeming to scatter in panic. A looming man in black mocked him from a distance. A child raced along a winding, sun-drenched hill . . . a child who suddenly transformed into a twisted, undead thing of evil.
Troubled by the meanings of these dreams even in the depths of his slumber, the wizard shifted uneasily. As he did, he dropped deeper yet, entering a realm of pure darkness that both smothered and comforted him.
And in that realm, a voice, a soft yet commanding voice, spoke to the desperate dragon mage.
You would sacrifice anything for her, would you not, Korialstrasz?
In his sanctum, Krasus’s lips moved as he mouthed a reply. I would give myself if that is what it takes to free her. . . .
Poor, loyal Korialstrasz . . . A shape formed in the darkness, a shape that fluctuated with each breath of the sleeping figure. In his dreams, a drifting Krasus tried to reach for that shape, but it vanished just as he almost caught it.
In his mind, it had been Alexstrasza.
You slip quicker and quicker toward the final rest, brave one. Is there something you would ask of me before that happens?
Again his lips moved. Only that you help her . . .
Nothing for yourself? Your fading life, perhaps? Those who have the audacity to drink to death should be rewarded with a full goblet of his finest vintage. . . .
The darkness seemed to be pulling him in. Krasus found it hard to breathe, hard to think. The temptation to simply turn over and accept the comforting blanket of oblivion grew stronger.
Yet he forced himself to reply. Her. All I ask is for her.
Suddenly he felt himself dragged upward, dragged to a place of color and light, a place where it became possible to breathe again, to think again.
Images assailed him, images not from his own dreams—but from the dreams of others. He saw the wishes and wants of humans, dwarves, elves, and even orcs and goblins. He suffered their nightmares and savored their sweet sensations. The images were legion, yet as each passed him by, Krasus immediately found it impossible to recall them, just as he found it so hard to recall even his own dreams.
In the midst of this flowing landscape, another vision formed. However, while all around it moved as mist, this one retained a shape—more or less—that grew to overwhelm the small figure of the wizard.
A graceful draconic form, half substance, half imagination, spread its wings as if waking. Hints of faded green, such as seen in a forest before the setting of night, spread across the torso of the leviathan. Krasus looked up, prepared to meet the dragon’s eyes—and saw that they were closed as if in sleep. However, he had no doubt that the Mistress of Dreams perceived him all too well.
Such a sacrifice will I not demand from you, Korialstrasz, you who have always been a most interesting dreamer. . . . The edges of the dragon’s mouth curled up slightly. A most intriguing dreamer . . .
Krasus sought to find stable footing, to find any footing, but the ground around him remained malleable, almost liquid. He was forced to float, a position that left him feeling wanting. I thank you, Ysera. . . .
Ever polite, ever diplomatic, even to my consorts, who have, in my name, rejected your desires more than once.
They did not understand the situation fully, he countered.
You mean I did not understand the situation fully. Ysera drifted back, her neck and wings rippling as if reflected in a suddenly disturbed pool. Ever her eyelids remained shut, but her great visage focused quite distinctly on the intruder to her realm. It is not so simple a matter to free your beloved Alexstrasza, and even I cannot say if the cost is worth it. Is it not better to let the world run its course, to do as it will? If the Giver of Life is to be freed, will it not happen of its own accord?
Her apathy—the apathy of all three of the Aspects he had visited—set the dragon mage’s mind afire with anger. And is Deathwing truly to be the culmination of the world’s course, then? He certainly will be if none of you do anything but sit back and dream!
The wings folded in. Mention not that one!
Krasus pushed. Why, Lady of Dreams? Does he give you nightmares?
Although the lids stayed tight, Ysera’s eyes surely held some dire emotion. He is one whose dreams I will never enter—again. He is one who is quite possibly more terrible in his sleep than even waking.
The beleaguered wizard did not pretend to understand the last. All that concerned him was the fact that none of these great powers could summon up the wherewithal to make a stand. True, thanks to the Demon Soul they were not what they once had been, but still they wielded terrible power. Yet, it appeared that all three felt that the Age of the Dragon had passed, and that even if they could alter the future, it would not be worth dragging themselves out of their self-imposed stupors.
I know that you and yours still circulate among the younger races, Ysera. I know that you still influence the dreams of the humans, elves, and—
To a point, Korialstrasz! There are limits to even my domain!
But you have not given up entirely on the world then, have you? Unlike Malygos and Nozdormu, you do not hide in madness or the relics of times past! After all, are not dreams also of the future?
As much as they are the past; you would do well to remember that!
The faint image of a human woman holding up a new baby drifted by. The brief glimpse of a young boy doing epic battle with childish monsters of his own imagining flickered into and out of existence. Krasus momentarily surveyed the various dreams forming and dissipating around him. As many dark as there were those of a lighter nature, but that was how it had always been. A balance.
Yet, in his mind, his queen’s continued captivity and Deathwing’s determination to wrest the world from the younger races upset that balance. There would be no more dreams, no more hopes, if both situations were not rectified.
With or without your help, Ysera, I will go on. I must!
You are certainly welcome to do so. . . . The dream dragon’s form wavered.
Krasus turned away from her, ignoring the intangible images that scattered in his wake. Then either send me back to my sanctum or drop me into the abyss! Perhaps it would be best if I do not live to see the fate of the world—and what becomes of my queen!
He expected Ysera to send him back to the arms of oblivion, so that he would no longer be able to harp on the subject of his Alexstrasza to either her or any of the other Aspects. Instead, the dragon mage felt a gentle touch on his shoulder, an almost tentative touch.
Turning, Krasus found himself facing a slim, pale woman, beautiful but ethereal. She stood clad in a flowing gown of pale green gossamer, a veil partially obscuring her lower features. In some ways she reminded him of his queen—and yet not.