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5. You awaken in a place devoid of color, flat and featureless, the earth made of pebbled stones. A track is beaten through them that suggests the passage of many, many hooves, although it is utterly silent and there are no signs of life to be seen. You hear cold, mournful wind, but you do not feel it: the air is still and cool. A strange, smooth-sided tower rises in the distance and glows from within with a light like the moon. If you approach it, you find it surrounded with strange symbols, but touching it hurts--unless you are a Legendary, in which case it triggers floods of ancestral memory, not just from your own race (as expected), but from all of them. You remember snippets of lives lived by dozens of Kin of all types.
He was underwater - under crystalline clear water, the shadows of tree branches moving lazily overhead. Fish, eels, salamanders wriggled by, their movements usually made clandestine by the murky waters of the swamp suddenly on full display. As he kicked after them, his attention was suddenly drawn away by a familiar voice. It must be her, he thought, half aware that this dream was a memory. The shadow of the crane that darted by seemed to lend this theory credence, but why is she calling me -"Father," a familiar voice, no longer disguised by his slumber, said quietly into his ear. Its source nudged his head. "Father, wake up."
The stag woke slowly, first gently stretching himself where he lay. For a moment, his muscles felt as though they hadn't seen much use in some time, and he thought he was again covered in leaves and windswept detritus - but it was only a moment, and passed quickly as he pulled himself upright. As he opened his eyes, the stag heard a quiet, shocked intake of breath.
Wildflower Breeze had lived alone, without the company of his son, since the great flood some seasons past. In that time, a lot of things had happened to him, not the least of which was his personal visit with the motherfather for his promotion from average citizen to brilliant-eyed stag, with all its included abilities and duties.
The change was, naturally, sort of startling to the son who hadn't seen him since before it had happened. He'd heard and told the tales, both as accompaniment and more recently on his own, enough times that he understood immediately what these changes must mean. With an incredulous, playful smile growing on his face, the son asked, "So, you're one of those figures of legend now - a wise and mighty stag? Have you vanquished any forces of evil yet, or blessed the illness out of any maidens on the edge of death?""Not vanquished, per se," Breeze said absently, his mind taking a longer to gain traction than usual that... morning? "Where exactly are we," he muttered aloud, turning his gaze from his son and surveying the uninspiring horizon. "Where's the wind?"
The young buck shrugged. "Nowhere, as far as I can tell. The scenery's about the same everywhere I've seen, too - I did a bit of a survey while you were resting, and the only thing around here that's any different is that standing stone there," he concluded with a gesture.
Breeze turned sharply to his son. "You let me sleep, while you hared about in an unknown, possibly dangerous, place? What were you thinking?"
"That you looked like you could use the rest," he replied calmly. "I circled you, so I didn't leave you unguarded," he added, expecting this to pacify his elder.
Breeze stared mutely for a few seconds, mouth working wordlessly. His son thinking of his protection was about as backwards an idea as there was! Since when was that his job? Breeze looked - really looked - at his son, for the first time in a long while.
Motes-in-Moonlight had not suffered as dramatic a physical or spiritual transformation as his father, but to his father's eye a transformation had indeed taken place. His movements and words radiated a confidence and surety that had been lacking before. His gaze did not waver, his posture was easy - life on his own had been made him harder. All in all, the boy was looking very healthy, very mature, very... adult, really. It was hardly fair to call him a boy anymore.
Motes' ears flicked gently under his father's regard.
With a sigh, the stag nodded his quiescence and apology. "It has been a long time," he said, carefully, to explain himself, perhaps to change the subject.
Motes tilted his head. "It really has, I guess," he said, then nodded slightly.
There were a few minutes of awkward silence and shuffling of hooves before they both spoke at the same time;
"But anyways, this tower -"
"About that stone you mentioned -"
There was another pause, then Breeze gestured to Motes to continue.
"It's the only thing around here other than the ground and the sky," he said wryly, "And it gets stranger than that. I suggest we head over there and find out just what's going on."
"I was going to suggest that myself," Breeze admitted. "Lead the way, if you will?"
---
The path worn in the (utterly strange, but also utterly boring) pebbly ground was barely discernible except under careful scrutiny. Its course wavered a little behind them, but from where they had met to the tower, it was fairly straight.
"The path suggests both presence and movement," Breeze insisted firmly, "either to, or from, this tower, by many, many hooves. Where are the people?"
"I swear, I haven't seen a soul," Motes insisted with conviction. "For all the wind we can hear, we can't feel a thing - this path could be ancient for all we know, since there's apparently nothing to disturb it - except for us, now."
The tower itself rose, glowing, from the level ground straight into the (perhaps overcast, perhaps discolored) sky. A presence that should have felt huge, looming, and ominous, it was somehow softened by its delicate luminescence. Graven all over with strange symbols, it was if the moon had sent a strange envoy to this strange land, somehow failing completely to account for the language barrier.
"And we've circled around this dratted thing five times now trying to make some sense of it, with no luck. Are you sure it's not just someone's misguided art project?"
"They must have some meaning," the stag insisted, "it's too large and too popular for it to have been a simple art piece." He peered peevishly at the nearest sigil. "Whoever carved this had a very good reason, if only we could figure it out," he breathed, leaning in closer to examine the marks, and accidentally -
