CHAPTER THREE: Dreams.
For the next 10 years, Weaver set out on the road, spreading the word that the Heroes were returning. Bowerstone had been his first stop, dispatching a nest of giant wasps which had invaded the little town square. After initial distrust, Weaver's act and words touched the hearts of the people, and they accepted his message gladly. Yes, they said. When the time comes, we will lend aid to the Guild, as you have for us.
So on he went, traveling through the expansive realm of Albion. Sometimes he would defend a farm or two from a bandit raid, others he'd rescue traders from a pack of Hobbes. Everywhere he went, he would provide help, and ask for it in return. The answer was invariably "Yes" each time.
Back at the Guild, Scythe had slowly but surely breathed life into the old halls. With the assistance of a handful of workers from nearby Bowerstone and Westcliff, they had slowly but surely excavated the outer walls of the Guild and repaired the ancient battlements. It was a good start to a long and difficult job, one that would probably still be continuing even when Weaver returned from his wandering.
The task was made all the more difficult without the Cullis Gates. As he moved from town to town and place to place, Weaver would rediscover the ancient traveling portals. Using the Guild Seal, he was able to restore them to working order. Despite a desire for a warm, comfortable bed and a roof over his head, the wizened old man would press on.
After 10 years, 10 long years of wandering, the Guildmaster sat on a crumbling wall outside a small fishing village named Bargate. The wall he was sitting on, in fact, was all that remained of the old Bargate Prison. It may have been his imagination, but the town itself had seemed rather dull and dreary, as though the vibe and energy of the prison itself lived on despite its physical existence being terminated.
He wiped his sweaty face with a handkerchief, just having removed a small legion of Hollow Men (or, as he knew them, the Undead) from the Cemetery. He was willing to be they were a remnant of the creatures who had once called Lychfield Graveyard home. "Neither here nor there." He muttered to himself.
The wall he sat on overlooked the Ocean, a slate mass of churning water. Far away into the distance, barely a speck on the horizon, was a small island of frozen mountains. In the long ago, it had been the Northern Wastes, Snowspire, and Necropolis. From the various books he'd read, and the words of the coastal villagers, the island was uninhabited by man or beast. A few expeditions had been made to the island, but no one had wanted to dwell there. They had called the place "unwholesome".
With a grunt, Weaver rose and tucked his handkerchief into his pocket. He picked up his cane, and took hold of the Guild Seal once more. "Time to head home. With luck, William will at least have the kitchens ready. I do miss having a nice cup of tea before bed." He chuckled to himself, knowing full well that there would be no tea this evening. Maybe not for several evenings. With another blue flash, the Guildmaster disappeared.
When he materialized outside the Guild, his mouth fell open. It wasn't exactly the way he remembered it, but it was certainly very close. The stone walls looked beautiful in the late afternoon sun, a few flags flying merrily in the spring breeze. The giant oak doors were restored, and a bronze Guild Seal covered its face.
The old man smiled, happy to see his home once again. He pushed open the doors, which creaked slightly on it's hinges, and stepped into the entrance hall.
Torches blazed from brackets on the wall, candles sparkled from a huge steel chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Scythe (and the people of Albion) had spared no expense in rebuilding the home of the Heroes.
"Welcome home, old one." Scythe's voice drifted to him from the centre of the room, sitting in a chair by the newly created map table. He looked up at Weaver, and smiled. The smile was rare, full of life. Enough to almost reveal the man he had been when he had ruled the Old Kingdom.
"You've quite the hide to go calling me old, William." Chuckled Weaver, descending the steps as Scythe rose from his seat. "It's wonderful. Simply wonderful."
Scythe grasped hands with Weaver, his own eyes roaming across the Guild, as if to confirm that yes, it did indeed look wonderful. "All the thanks cannot be given to me." He said gruffly. "The people of Albion did much. As have you."
The Guildmaster stepped over to the map table, looking down on it. The towns and realms were marked, as were the seas and forest, in remarkably accurate detail. "And now, all I have to do is find suitable youngsters to train in the ancient ways." If asked 10 years ago, he would have been doubtful of finding any who were capable of wielding the arts. That was before he'd met the sword-wielding farmer who had assisted him with vanquishing a pack of Balverine, or the little girl with the odd ability to start a fire with neither flint nor tinder. There were heroes out there, even now.
The two men talked long into the afternoon. The sun sank towards the western mountains, then disappeared behind them. When they had finished talking, the last faint glow of sunset had disappeared.
"Well, my work here is complete." Scythe said quietly, as he and the Guildmaster stood in the courtyard in the picturesque grounds. Fireflies flitted through the air, the soft thrumming of their wings barely audible over the gently babbling stream.
"You're leaving already?" asked Weaver, visibly surprised by the news. "I thought you would have stayed another day longer, at the very least."
Scythe shook his head. "No, my time here is up. You are here, and the future of the Guild is left to you. It seems only fitting that you be the one to lead it out of the darkness of history."
"Of course. Shall I see you again, William?"
Scythe pondered this question for a few moments, bowing his head slightly. When he raised it and met Weaver's gaze, he smiled. "When you reach the path at the end of the clearing, we shall meet again."
They said their goodbyes, and Weaver had returned to the Guild. It was now three stories high, the upper two levels being the living quarters for future Heroes and Apprentices alike. The ground level held the Entrance and Dining Halls, along with the Guild supply stores, newly restored library, merchant shop and food stores. The Chamber of Fate had been left untouched, as a testimony to the old Heroes. Weaver felt it was a very touching gesture.
That night, he climbed the short stair case to the Guildmaster's quarters and, exhausted, fell asleep almost immediately after his head had touched the pillow. Rather than the deep, peaceful sleep he had been expecting, Weaver slipped into troubling nightmares.
In his dreams, he was being chased, hunted by dark shadowy shapes with burning red eyes. He was running, running from Avo only knew what kind of fiend, through the forest. Suddenly, he found his way barred by a towering figure. The figure's face was hidden in the shadows of the blood red hood it wore, but the crimson eyes staring mercilessly out at him, and the high, cackling voice could not be mistaken.
"You miserable old fool. Look at you, clinging to your old ways, trying to drag the Guild from the ashes of yesteryear!" Jack of Blades cackled a high, mirthless laugh. "You shall fail. I shall see Albion in flames, and there is no one to stop me this time!"
As Jack laughed insanely, the forest around them leaped up into immediate flames. It was as though Hell had been brought to Albion, and the world was indeed burning.
Weaver sat bolt upright, drenched in a cold sweat, trembling from head to foot. "N-no… no, it was… it was just a dream…" he muttered, staring around the room. He tried to convince himself it wasn't real. But deep down, he saw it for what it was. An omen.
He put the dream aside for now, and returned to sleep. He would address the situation when there was something he could do about it. Right now, he was simply an old man with a nice new home. And despite part of him believing this was a sign that dark days were ahead, he resolved himself not to act too swiftly or rashly, in case he'd been mistaken.
There was nothing to do but to go out again, finding those with Heroic capabilities, and train them to defend the people of Albion.