Hearing Voices

I keep hearing whispers in the dark. They're faint. Far away, but amplified... manifold. Layered. Like an echo that answers its own beck and call. A folded veil, descending on itself.

As I attempt to peel back the pleats, it feels as though I brush against skin above skin; skin where there should be none, should never have been.

A thing that grows and never stops growing, painting over itself with matter. A thing with many faces; crying from many mouths.

Heckling, deceiving, bantering.

Cinder's Cradle has finally done me in.

The others fell - or surrendered themselves - to the Shroud long ago... for me, the final stab was this sweltering heat... and all these... voices.

For the longest, I couldn't place them. I recognize them as unlike my own, unlike my comrades' or the Lord's...

Then, I realized it. When the Wanderer spoke, raising his fist firmly by Vorgoth's right side, I heard it.

I heard the voice of the whispers, split from many mouths.

He's always up there in that lonely tower.

Instead of parlaying with his men, or what's left of 'em, he's staring at the stars... why? It must be the Wanderer's doing. He's the one who's been infecting his mind; guiding his hand, his sword...

What answer, what wisdom could the moon overhead possibly hold? Is the Lord growing sentimental? No, it can't be.

It must be his way of preparing for the siege.