| The lands of men are supported in the branches of an immense tree.
Even though it defies everything you know, even though it makes no sense
in common rationality, somehow, deep inside the core of your being, you
know it to be true. Every world, every possibility, every eventuality,
all are but fruit on the branches of Ygg, the father ash. There are branches
higher than the world we inhabit, and there are branches lower. As with
any tree, there are roots, far below the worlds, where only the dead can
venture, or care to. There, down at the roots, the pulse of Ygg thrums,
as the magickal energy of the tree flows up to the branches, there to flower
in the mortal lands as ley lines and nexuses.
There, down at the source of all things, there is a beast very much
like what mortal men fancy to be a dragon. In many ways, it is the nightmare
from which those great beasts take form. It gnaws at the roots, slowly.
Its gnawing barely makes a dent in the great roots, but it does do damage,
and the creature is patient. It was here at the beginning of time, and
when it has gnawed through the roots of Ygg, time will end, and the great
tree will fall. Thus the game of waiting is played. There at the roots
too is a beast not unlike a great wolf, bound in the strongest chains in
existance. Its last meal was the hand of the man who chained it, and it
is very hungry. It too waits for the end-days, when the dragon-thing will
fell the tree, and its chains will fall off, allowing it to again run free
and feast on man-flesh. It is less patient than the wyrm, and hunger has
driven it quite mad.
There, also, in the shadowed caverns formed by the roots of Ygg, are
three women who watch the wolf and the wyrm. They have been there since
the first man took breath, and their vigil has been constant. They tell
tales and write stories. Sometimes they sing. Everything they say is true.
There is some doubt as to why this is. Some say they see everything in
prophetic visions, and record what they see. Still others say that they
do not merely record, but instead weave reality by their songs and tales.
They are the Norns, and today they sing a sad song indeed.
The man is shocked awake by clammy forms pushing him forward. His
eyes open slowly, and he looks out at the field before him. He is being
groped and handled by countless dead hands, and those around him stare
blankly ahead, emitting an endless moan. The man does not know how, but
he realizes he has been here before.
He is in the Fugue Plain. Here is the place where the souls of the
damned go, to await entrance into the land of their final punishment. The
wails that they cry out are litanies of the crimes they committed in life.
It is familiar to him, but how? Similar to something he has seen
before, yet wrong...
The man looks down, and sees he is bound in chains. An urge enters
into him, the reasons for it a mystery to him. He must break the chains.
He looks down at them in futility, and raises his hands to his face.
He gazes at a worn, faint scar on his hand, its shape an arcane brand.
Memories come to him unbidden, of a life that he tells himself could not
be his own.
He sees in his mind's eye a strange woman, her lips stitched shut,
and a brand like his upon her forehead. He hears her giving him a tempting
offer, and he hears himself accept. He sees himself walking a path paved
in broken promises, and he finds himself twitching in pain anew as the
memory of a hot brand being pressed to his hand forces its way into his
mind.
At that point a faint understanding, barely perceptible, enters him.
He realizes that not only must he break the chains, he is capable of it,
and he will.
His arms strain against the chain, and suddenly, the links break
apart, shattering.
Driven by urges he does not understand, the man claws his way over
the wailing dead, on his way to where he knows he must go.
In a remote, almost deserted section of the galaxy, a derelict spacecraft
floats, bearing the markings of the Race. It is adrift, but it will not
be so for long.
"Repairs are completed, Magistrate," A voice buzzes over a speaker.
A creature something like an upright walking lizard stirs, and steps
into the light, wearing a military uniform.
"Very good, technician. How soon?"
"We should be able to engage the drives in a matter of moments. However,
sir, there's something you should know"
"...and what's that, technician?"
"I'm reading anomalous energy signatures in your cabin. Is something
wrong, sir?"
"No, nothing at all. That will be all, technician."
The lizard-man paces in its cabin, eager to be out of this dead region
of space. It hears footsteps, and whirls about to see the source.
Before it stands a human, impressive in stature. He is bare-chested,
and clad in tattered pants. The lizard-man remarks to itself that the man
bears the lesions and sores that signify that he is wracked by the final
stages of the infection known as the Phage, yet did not seem weakened by
it. The man's face is obscured by a mask of brass, its shine tarnished
with verdegris.
He speaks, and the lizard-man is astonished to hear its words in the
tongue of the Race.
"Tell me your name."
"I am Magistrate #3705, Epsilon wing."
"I do not want that name. I want to hear the name the Yith'cha call
you."
"The Yith'cha? The divine Emperor outlawed that cult when he ascended
to the throne!"
"Tell me what they call you."
"They...they call me Grand Warlock Ygorl, Master of the Fifth Circle"
"Now call me by the name you know I bear."
"You are he who waits, the Harbinger who is to come after the world-skeins
cross."
"You are correct."
"What do you wish of me, Harbinger?"
"You are to take your ship to the nearest outpost. Upon arriving, you
are to assume command under clause #40993.7, giving security code XQ862.
Having assumed command, you will send out beacon 0331, using encryption
routine Omega, to the homeworld."
"As you command, Harbinger."
The man disappears, and the lizard-man reluctantly walks to the instrumentation
panel to open the communication channel once more.
"Technician?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Set a course for Phobos Moon outpost as soon as the drives can be engaged."
-
 The
song of the Norns continues...
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