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Within the ensemble of ruins Gwenyth walked, Death awaited at the very end in a single veil of harsh light, still and unaware of the present pale woman. Like the moon against the night sky, their figures neared, distance closing. Decrepit Death's hideaway littered with the crumbling stones of something that once stood tall, and yet it seemed to flourish still. Only the sound of Gwenyth's bare feet traipsing against an aged set of stone, dirt and moss echoed along the shambled walls.
The peek of a storm front curtained overhead. Thunder growled in its approach.
Closer, Gwenyth could look upon Death with clearer detail. Death was solemn, ragged, and aged--grotesque to many, but for Gwenyth, this figure was almost familiar. With Gwenyth's concern for the safe travel of souls in their various rivers, she and Death had truly melded an unspoken and nigh-unseen alliance. Though they had never met in the physical as they did now, Gwenyth knew what she faced upon first sight.
From fire... Freedom.
From the past, you move.
What awaits...
Death preferred the use of Sulvaley Elven, and for an instant Gwenyth acknowledged her consciously formulated bias in her dream; a moment of realization, a moment of breaking through the walls of sleep's concoctions called dreams. Even still, she settled in a bubble of comfort from this gesture. In this pause, the unspoken request for conversation fell upon Gwenyth's ears. Trailing it was the chorus of clouds swirling and thunder clawing closer to the dual figures, with each reach sounding with rumbling drums. Prickles of rain first touched Gwen's brow, and fell close to her eye. The next, by her cheek.
"How will I achieve my goals?" she asked Death.
The old and ruinous woman pointed to Gwenyth, then lifted her gaunt finger skyward. To the eye of the storm which swirled overhead. Bewilderment settled on the Isldar's face, but she awaited with tense patience. A creaking jaw conjured scratchy words together.
Your climb ends in ruins.
Death drew her head back and strings of hair fluttered in the gale winds. A solemn and empty laugh hollowly resounded from her skeletal vessel.
A storm... Hellfire!
The same storm that once embraced Gwenyth in a dream so long ago shadowed over from a thick smog, pungent and black. What lightning began to form turned red and crackled in a chorus of menacing thunderous symphonies. Rain formed sharp like the feel of ice, but it singed when it touched Gwenyth's skin. Amidst harsh-ringing lightning claps and thunder roars, Death's laugh descended into a wailing cry.
Clouds taken by smoke...
Solemn sky...
Death wept, then cried out to the hellish storm above. The skin on her hands tore away like old paper until all that remained were the cracking bones beneath. Then her scream faded, and Gwenyth soon stood in the ruins--alone--stark in the cold. When she awoke, her shoulders, she realized, held a line of goose pimples. This, she thought, this is what it felt to be cold. Cold was not unpleasant; it was unnerving. Gwen covered her shoulders with her palms and remained under her blanket a while longer. Only a while longer, she thought, for never had a storm felt so unfamiliar and terrifying to her before.
