Skipper Corwin had heard tales of there being a laughing god that enjoyed manipulating dreams. Turning them into inhospitable worlds where one was sentenced to wander until awareness mercifully came to the rescue. Some, according to his father, even believed the laughing god would bring forth a dreaming deluge upon the world, plunging it into one of its many nightmares. Regardless if that were true, or even possible, Skipper felt like the laughing god had his way with his own dreams that previous night.

      Last nights slumber was one filled with nightmarish creatures hunting him through eerie layers of architecture that were unrecognizable to him. Buildings of cold metal, solid grid iron bars, and bathed in tapestries of light surrounded him. Yet their heights were not as impressive as how far down each tower seemed to plunge. He had been running as a burning body cried out while chasing him, its elongated arms reaching to bury flame ridden talons into his skin.

      They were many such horrors, and yet the worst that he fled from were hulking masses of greying muscle which carried loud weapons that seemed to carve threw anything in their path. No matter how far he climbed, or how deep he tried to scurry, the flaming widows or carving brutes were not far behind.

      Only when he awoke, did Skip feel any semblance of relief. The images still flashed in front of him mind, unlike most dreams that faded away into obscurity. Even now, while wearing his padded armor and on patrol, he could remember the lingering dream with near perfect recollection. 

      Skip hoped such dreams wouldn’t return tonight. Regardless, it unnerved him that such clairvoyant dreams could exist in the first place. He wondered what had stirred such awful nightmares in the first place? 

      “There are fewer travelers than normal,” Dixie, the guard next to him, sighed while glaring down the long and barren road. Her voice interrupted his thoughts, and Skip was partially relieved. The southern gate of Hitecross was open to the frigid air coming from the mountains, and it made his ears twitch. 

      They had relieved the night guards mere hours ago, and the two of them had been watching the suns rays banish the cliffside shadows as the morning dew sparkled from the dawning light. He was glad that winter was coming, for it meant the Repentou trees would soon be in full bloom. There were few things more beautiful then a snow covered plain overshadowed by the crimson leaves of the Repentou. It was one of the reasons winter was his favorite season.

      He looked toward the south, at the cobblestone pathway leading toward the hills. The path circumventing the central mountain chains, and eventually leading to the southern tip of the island. With winter now here, the southern villages of Inner Knot routinely led caravans before the first seasonal frosts. So far, precious few had come.

      It was alarming to have so few travelers on the southern road, there wasn’t even the faint smell of oxen in the wind, or dust in the distance. There was a smell of wet grass, as the first snowfall had already melted away, and Skipper watched in amazement as a small avalanche plowed down one of the distant peaks. 

      Skipper Corwin leaned against the Hitecross banner which was planted next to the southern gate entrance. It’s thick fabric swayed with the wind, showing off the axe and shield emblem woven into the sheep wool. 

      Clothed in boar pelts, as was fairly customary for the Heightsland tribes, Skipper tightened the belt along his waist as a fresh breeze brushed against them. He chewed on a reed while trying to resist the urge to smoke form his pipe. The lack of pipe weed and tobacco was starting to get on his nerves. Shipments coming from the mainland had grown perilously short.

      “I’m sure more will come before long,” Skip shrugged. He couldn’t help but wonder if the distant clouds billowing in the horizon would come there way. They seemed darker than typical snow clouds. 

      A strand of fabric came free from the Hitecross banner next to him. The ripping strands alarmed him at first, but as Skip looked up, he felt a pang of sadness seeing it wither away.

      The dye in the banner had faded from a brilliant green to a dull grey, and tassels, once artistically woven along the seam, was frayed. The strands of copper connecting it to its wooden pole had rusted from years of exposure. 

      It was a miracle the banner was in any decent shape at all. There had been a commission to remake the standards of Hitecross, but the raw materials had yet to be requisitioned. Skipper had a fairly good idea as to why. All the finest materials were rationed by his own father, the duke of Hitesland, and he hoarded the best silk, wool, and finery that came to the islands shores. Had the commoners known, a riot would definitely ensue. 

      “Is that…someone? Where did he come from?” Dixie broke his train of thought yet again, this time her voice was brimming with surprise.

      She was right, far off into the distance a single figure was walking toward the village. At his current pace, the traveler was taking his time. 

      “Where did he come from?” Skip asked in fascination while still chewing his reed.

      A sudden breeze tangled with the wind, blowing a breath of fresh air from the south. Even from that distance, Skip’s heightened senses could pick up the newcomers scent. He expected it to smell of sweat, dirt, old clothing, mildew, and all sorts of other odors that came with long journeys. Oxen was also a common scent as most passerby’s used them to drag their convoy carts. 

      There were no such smells coming from this stranger. Instead, he smelled old and dank like packed leather in a moldy cellar. There was also a scent of rancid meat and dried blood mixed with the foul stench. Death reeked from this foreigner, and Skip wanted to vomit upon smelling it.

      He had to steady himself against the banner, not sure what to do. He feared that perhaps the traveler was seriously wounded, and considered calling for a aid. The stranger, despite his distance, seemed to notice their alarm. He ceased his approach, his cloak swaying with the wind, and for several minutes he simply stood there in silence. 

      Skip could make out two beady eyes underneath his hood gazing toward the town. There was something in those shiny white orbs that sent shivers down his spine. Then, after several heart pounding seconds, the nameless traveler seemed to evaporate into thin air. The sound of a latent gasp followed his fading form. The smell of death smothered the air around them both, as dark foreboding clouds continued to rise in the distance.

      “Goddess save us!” Dixie had fallen to her knees in fear. 

      Skip couldn’t blame her, for he had soiled his trousers upon watching the nameless figure fade away. 

      “Seal the gates,” his voice was stretched. “And alert the town guard.”

      “We are the town guard!” Dixie was fighting her instinct to turn and flee. Skip could tell she was struggling to maintain any sort of composure.

      “You think I don’t know that?” He didn’t mean to sound so hostile, but couldn’t help it. His tail was dragging between his legs, and he found himself gripping the banner pole as if it were his lifeline.

      To her credit, Dixie managed to get back on her feet, although her legs wouldn’t stop shaking. “Shut up and get someone!”

      “Who?”

      “Anyone!” Her outcry was barely audible over the sounds of hail raining down from above. Hail the size of small bones.