As the minutes passed by, Velmund felt an inclination to snuff in some fresh air outside. Leaving his work desk, he ascertained that embarking on a midnight stroll would help ease his mind. However, before he had the opportunity to leave his quarters, the man-at-arms guarding his room, accoutered in mail armor with the insignia of House Roswalt upon his gambeson, bearing a halberd, was awestruck on his doorstep, alarmed by his sudden presence. "Milord, Lady Ferndale has tasked me to ensure your safety," he blurted out. Letting out a sigh, Velmund attempted to dismiss the guard as he insisted on accompanying him after letting his intentions for a stroll known. The guard was an obstinate man at first, but with finally working some diplomacy as he emphasized his preference for no company, Velmund exited the manor and was greeted by the chilling night breeze. Feeling the air around him, he tried to ignore the guard a dozen paces behind him. As the structure he was staying was elevated in a steep hill, he spied the lustrous town down the slope and examined it.
Far to the eyeshot stood the sturdy and tall walls of the town, which several watchtowers overseeing the outward boundaries were embedded. On plain sight, the structures were manned by archers of the town militia, much more often since the impending attack on the town was publicly announced by the town's lord mayor. Inside the walls, the streets of Flendle were, surprisingly, bustling, despite the immanent danger the dwellers surely were warned about. A true sight of bewilderment, he started thinking. This town… endearingly occupied in its own little world. Undertaking things like it is not at death's threshold. Looking at them gives me hope and despair all in the same.
He wished that he could knew if what he witnessed was complacency or mere foolishness, and yet it can be neither. Perhaps the people were relishing their last moments, but this too he cannot be certain of.
The image of dread extended through his mind as he imagined the worst consequences, threatening his resolve to falter. Such a burden were too much for him to handle. He must persevere to not only preserve his honor, but the very lives of his people. With genuine solicitude, he can only hope that his stratagem and the firm walls of the town would protect all that mattered.
After retreating back to his quarters, Velmund set up to take his rest in preparation for his lordly duties come the morrow. Despite the troubles haunting him, he emerged into a deep slumber with gentle ease. Before he knew it, he was reliving the previous memories his starved mind chose to feed him. The first scene depicted his deceased mother upon her death. The unsullied and still young Velmund, his grimoire clutched innocently at hand, was weeping tears upon the horrid scene unfolding before him. Under the burning roof of the resplendent castle hall, his mother tightly embraced him to cover him from the angry mass gathering towards them. Several cursing men with makeshift weapons swarmed the place, their bloodlust directed upon him and his helpless mother. Two knights in full plate armor stood in the entryway of the hall, serving as a blockade between the mother and child and the furious peasants. The men overwhelmed the knights in a swooping motion, extending their weapons to puncture through and reach the pleading Duchess. The knights killed more than a dozen people before being beaten to death by the angry mob. Velmund, who might have known of what was transpiring, to shed tears was all that he could do. Her mother muttered something to his ear, but the words faded as she was struck in the back by a spear. All of it buried in the past now, forgotten forever. "…your cursed lineage be damned in the Abyss!" yelled the man who dealt the death blow to her. The last of his recollections was another blurry carnage as a contingent of knights and guards rushed forth in rescue to subdue the rebelling peasants.
Velmund had another dream soon after the gruesome scene depicting his mother's death. This time he was seated upon a golden throne adorned with gems of varying colors and sizes, ascended to a huge pile of corpses that could have amounted to hundreds if not thousands of cadavers. The black raven rested on his lap, motionless, as if it was his tamed familiar. Its eyes were the color of the vast sea, peering in the distance with pure tranquility. The dead bodies was a sight of dread, but Velmund himself harbored no fear nor mercy to them, neither did the raven paid much attention to the corpses, as if it had not been present at the time. Atop them was a huge and scaly six-legged red winged atrocity that circled around Velmund, gouging flames, incinerating the lifeless bodies below to ashes. Later that day when he awoke, Velmund would have remembered this dream and would consult upon his trusted grimoire, its pool of knowledge and countless secrets the young lord treasured the most. Along the recto sandwiched by the verso about the origin and nature of the lycanthropes and another leaf foretelling the cursed race of the goblins, he would turn to a page that read:
"…the fire-breathing scaly beasts that soared upon the sky and beget the trembling of the ground beneath its feet are known to mankind as dragons. The mere sight of such monstrosity is enough to inspire fear among the bravest of men. The former territories under the Ancient Empire– lands of the northern and western Neutomia where lies the Durfrenian Empire, Gittlorne Republic and the Brudram Stratocracy– refer to them as firedrakes or drakens. Along with the conclusion of the Thousand Years' War that led to the demise of the Ancient Empire's reign, dragons were exterminated in the surface of Neutomia by the Ecclesiastical Mages, disciples of the God of Wisdom, Ashwald. However, two minor races descendants to the dragons still remain on the continent despite the extinction of their progenitors, known as the dragon-kin; a Demi-human race known for their inhumane strength, and the closest to them in terms of appearance, the wyverns; two-legged winged Ill-spawns smaller in size compared to dragons..."
Beneath the dragon, under the throne's silhouette, stood a double-horned figure. He had a body of a man, a lengthy tail of a lion's, and a big head of a bull. It was a minotaur holding a two-handed battle axe in one arm, decimating through the mounds of rotten flesh. The legend of the minotaur was known throughout the continent: a divine beast that guarded the massive labyrinth in the first floor of the celestial tower of Lamellia. According to primeval tales of the Ancient Empire, the minotaur was once a renowned gladiator who had slain countless of warriors upon his lifetime, and the vengeful souls of the fallen he defeated hauled him into the depths of the Eternal Abyss, known to be Yldread's realm. However, the minotaur's unwavering faith to the Goddess of Protection was deep enough for Lamellia to notice and grant him salvation, claiming and stealing his soul from the God of Death.
The two monstrosities continued to smite the corpses endlessly, while the raven and its master lay idle on their spot at the golden throne, until all of it had faded into the oblivion, unrealized until the vision's fulfillment.
The fading scene of the golden throne and the atrocities with it was replaced by a more horrid depiction. On a cliff bound path within two diverging mountains that made the rift, a large cohort of armored men were setting ablaze the dozens of ligneous crucifixes. The crosses were placed to form a large ring of fire, encompassing a great beast of immense size. At the nexus of the circle, two ravens feast upon a wounded lion. One of the ravens unmindfully prodded through the lion's entrails from its gouged stomach, while the other one watched his kind almost regrettably, if one can see such sentiment on a raven. Several armored figure mourned for the lion's passing, while others grimly chortled at the burning men on the crucifixion, madly. Soon when the lion's corpse had gone cold and still, the pair flew by.