Bronislav sat up, startled out of a deep sleep. Holding his breath, he scanned the dim half-light of his bedchamber. The glowing embers in the central firepit served only to deepen and animate the shadows into a haunting dance. Only the contented breathing of his three bedmates and the occasional crackle from the dying fire broke the silence.

Carefully and quietly, so as not to disturb his wives' slumber, Bronislav eased himself out of bed. He padded barefoot across the stones to his great chair by the hearth and sat, letting the fire warm his feet while he pondered.

Although grateful to Aq'Chamoneth for choosing him to be his instrument on this earth, Bronislav often longed for a simpler time. A time when he could roam free on the fiery peaks of his homeland. A time when the fate of so many did not rest in his hands. A time when his sleep was not interrupted by cryptic dreams and visions. Mysterious images, sometimes in sequence, sometimes random puzzling flashes, plagued his slumber.

What troubled him was that he could never decipher the images before it whatever they were predicting had come to pass. His warrior's mind thought in straight lines and black and white. He was made for conquest and rule and the feel of steel in his hand. He was no priest or philosopher.

If you wish to speak to me Aq'Chamoneth, why not just do so? Why send me these images that I cannot understand until it is too late?

This night's vision started out relatively clear, but quickly unraveled into unintelligible nonsense. A gauntleted fist wreathed in dancing orange flames loomed ominously over a delicate bough of silvery yew. Then, barely discernable at first, a gigantic iron anvil materialized behind the yew. The flaming gauntlet continued its advance, and the yew bough was caught between it and the anvil.

Bronislav was certain that he and his forces were the gauntlet, and the followers of the wild elf Swiftwind were the yew branch. The anvil was a puzzle, and things only got more confusing from there.

The yew bough contacted the anvil, but instead of bouncing off or breaking against its unyielding surface, it began to absorb into the sturdy iron. The anvil lost its shape and quickly coated the branch. What remained was an iron bough, tougher than the yew, and more flexible than the anvil.

Stranger still, the flaming gauntlet and the iron bough were suddenly surrounded by a raging sea of multicolored liquid. The prismatic deluge threatened to sweep away both the gauntlet and the bough, but the flaming fist would not relent. It crashed into the iron branch. Again the branch yielded to the gauntlet, then enveloped and absorbed it. The result was an iron bough wreathed in orange flames.

The last image Bronislav could remember was the kaleidoscopic tide surging over the flaming iron bough.

On to the battle

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