Derek
*The night was warm, the candles glowing softly as Prince Astalios returned to his bed once more, ready to sleep. Talks with Winrae had yielded advice about speaking to the god Anthron, the King of War. It was no wonder that he was so aligned to battle, from her cryptic advice to pray and sleep, though he was apprehensive about the prospect of actually trying to contact the god of war. 

It was an uphill battle to control the joy he felt at getting into fights, slamming his warhammer into the chest of a bandit, the crunch of a skull between his hands as he manipulated his armor around him like a second skin to enhance his own strength. It was... Too much. It was wrong to delight in these things, this Astalios knew - and the peace of Alynthi could be disturbed by his own pull towards war. His father and mother's constant work, gone, and their legacy only a warmonger.

He couldn't let himself go so far. There was no honor in such a fate...

But perhaps Winrae was right about the prayer. Perhaps he could ask for a removal of that joy in battle. And so he knelt, by his bedside, armor on a stand in his room, only a dagger beside him. He looked towards the armor, engraved with the golden imagery of a stag, and felt the golden crown still upon his head, stylized with only the stag's horns. It was time...*

"I do not come... I do not come to you asking for power." *He whispered by his bedside.* "Remove it from me. I need guidance so that I may direct my wants... Towards a goal." *He slipped into bed feeling foolish, and drifted off to sleep...*
Denise
As the prince slowly lilted off to sleep, for what could have been seconds, minutes, or even hours passed by. The darkness and calm of sleep washed over Astalios, until a gentle light began to drag him in. As if his world that was previously enveloped by the darkness of slumber had all but disappeared, before the prince lie a vast valley. It was dark, and the moon and stars above shown bright and as beautiful as they always had. It was obvious he was still under Lucidien's sky, and a comet quickly zipped across its blackness before disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. In the valley where the prince stood, grass gently swayed in the night wind, though no creatures or other people could be seen anywhere, nor buildings or any sort of light. The only light that allowed the prince to see was that of the stars and moon above.
Derek
"This is a strange dream..." *He murmured, looking down at himself as he surveyed the green grass, the comet streaking across the sky. It was peaceful in the valley where he stood, but he was clad in the armor he wore to battle, in his hand the hammer he wielded. His crown was pure gold and still on his head, his armor turned golden in the pattern of a stag where elsewhere it was steel.*

"Perhaps I may have more like this." *It was nice, he thought. It was a good thing that he appreciated such peace in the world.*
Denise
Just as quickly as the peaceful feeling had washed over him, it was replaced by an increasing sense of dread. The crown atop his head grew heavier and heavier, until his knees would eventually buckle beneath its weight. Unable to remove it, the prince would feel as though all the happiness in the world had been ripped away from his being, and instead replaced with helplessness, dread, fear, death. The prince would be completely unable to move, and as if a hand beneath his chin forced him to look upward, each star slowly began to disappear. Faster and faster did the light from each star burn out, until all that remained was the moon, high in the night sky. 

The golden crown on the prince's head slowly began to melt and meld into his skin, sending searing pain through his veins and down his body. A massive shape took form over the moon, and soon enough the prince was cast into complete and utter darkness, all feeling now lost from his body and being. For what could have been hours, he sat there, unable to move or know how much time had really passed, until a small red dot, no more than a pinprick appeared at the center of where the moon once stood. Almost like an eye peering straight through the prince's soul.
Derek
*Prince Astalios collapsed in pain, the weight of the world upon his shoulders, gold painful upon his head. He gritted his teeth, and repeated to himself that he could not cry out, could not concede - the dream had not yet even begun, and who was he to run from it?

**But the pain!**

It stabbed at him like a thousand knives, burned like a hundred suns, and hit him with the guilt of a million battles enjoyed and taken part in. His veins screamed at him like steel on steel, the squeal of the battlefield, swords scraping against armor and axes against bones. He could not look away, but he could stare back at the eye, and not try to turn his head. There was nothing but the dot and the soul of the prince, staring back at one another.

What did the dot see? What too did the prince?*
Denise
As this dot or eye or whatever it may have been stared at the prince, that feeling of terrifying dread only increased tenfold. This did not feel like a god, no, it felt darker. Much more horrible and gruesome than what many have described when being reached out to by one of the gods. Not even the tales and myths of those who have lived to see the God of Death himself have spoken of such a terrifying and painful feeling. This was no god. This was not Anthron.

As quickly as all this feeling of dread and sorrow appeared, it disappeared. A different, more familiar warmth washed over Astalios. Victory, triumph, pride; the feeling of winning a battle over a difficult enemy. Adrenaline coursed through the prince's veins and that weight was soon lifted as cries of victory echoed through his mind. The darkness disappeared, and visions of soldiers cheering on the king, queen and prince could be seen. Visions of towns and cities thanking the gods for their rulers, for the safety it gave them. Almost as if the prince were flying through a vision of what could be, what could happen.
Derek
*Whatever it had been, there was no escaping it. But now the soothing pride of victory covered him - glory rested on his shoulders like a soft cloak, an aura that gave those around him peace and his own visage radiance. There were none that had escaped him, none that stood against the hammer.

Towns and cities gave thanks. Roses and triumphs rang through his mind like the calls of a bell singing of victory, of prosperity, and of feasting. It was paradise.

He rode through city streets astride Tempest, the horse bearing garlands, and he knew that in this dream, in this vision, he had won this pride through hard conflict, earned it slowly and surely. They thanked the gods for him, for his family, that they lived in Alynthi... And it was brought through victory.

Was that his purpose? Was it his way to strive to win battles? Was that why he enjoyed the feeling of battle so?*
Denise
As roses were thrown about on the street before him and people cheered the princes family name, their faces ever so slowly began to twist. The smiles became saddened, but the cheers continued. The countless decorations of flowers across each house and over the various fences began to wilt and decay, and soon enough the smell of ash and fire hit the prince's nose like a brick wall. The cheers became screams, and that red dot that loomed so high in the sky returned. People in the street were crying, screaming, dying, "Why didn't you help us?! Why couldn't you stop it?!" The fires began to consume the children and mothers and fathers that were once cheering the prince's name, and from beneath him, Tempest was soon enveloped in flames as well.

Through all the chaos and destruction that now seemed to surround the prince, his heart filled with that victory and longing for battle. It was not a feeling of pride over the destruction around him as if it were his own doing, no. But that swelling feeling was soon followed by a voice speaking a simple word. The sound of the obviously male voice echoed and boomed almost from the inside out, as if the prince's own heart was speaking to him. It was almost as if that voice was the one thing stopping the death and destruction around Astalios from reaching him, almost like a shield and sword at his side and in his heart.

There was nothing but one simple word.

***"Prepare."***