I N T R I G U I N G R E V E A L I N G C O N F I D E N T I A L
T H EP R O P A G A N D AO F F I C EO F T H E U N I T E DK I N G D O MO FG O A T S R E V I S I O N2 . 2
T HEN A T I O NA LO R C HE S T R AOFTHE U NI T E DK I NG D O MOFG O A T S
e COMPENDI UM F R A G ME N T T WO
e C o r i d o
The overseer slowly started to wake up. Through a vision still blurry he caught a glimpse of where he was. â€œThis must be the corridorâ€? he thought to himself. The two war-guards were still dragging him along. Somehow they managed to get out of that massive riot down at the camp without any scratch, though their axes were bloodstained. A sudden and incredibly painful sting ripped the overseer out of his dream-state and pulled him back into the world of the living. It was his nasty wound. He tried to find out if it was still bleeding but it was too dark. One of the warguards realized that he was back and looked at him, smiling wickedly. "It's good to have you back overseer. We already thought we would have to make you another one of those in order to wake you up. You mortals should be proud to even have blood flowing through you". He laughed out loud and bold, unwilling to hide the sarcasm in his voice.
The overseer however tried to make his feet follow his will again, but he had a hard time in doing so. He felt uncomfortable and ashamed. He, the overseer of the fifth battalion, one who had seen countless wars and battles. It was a sorry state he found himself in. The pain in his shoulder did not go away, but none of the war-guards seemed to have any intention in giving him some kind of rest or time to recover. They had orders. And apparently their orders were strict. He had to be delivered to the high council. The overseer did the best he could to make his appearance look less pitiful. It was the high council he was being presented at after all. As his senses slowly crept back into his head he started to feel a little unwell, to say the least. Why on Phoebal was he treated like a prisoner? The hands of the war-guards formed shackles as tight as chains. It did not at all look like they were escorting him. There was nothing for him to do as to wait an see. Besides, he did not have any particular desire to wander around alone in this frightening place either. This must be the corridor. The corridor, as it was called by most commoners. It was some kind of hallway at the very center of the fortress of the Kramh. Rumors had it that it was the only way to get to the throne room of the high council. But no one knew for sure. Few people ever entered here. And most of them were of a high position inside the Kramh. And high ranked officers serve the population with information in very rare cases. And it would've been hard to tell anyone anything about his place anyway, as it was so dark that even if the whole place burned, the fire itself would've been choked by this strangulating darkness. -6-
One of the few things the overseer managed to see was that the floor was made of dark-bluish stone tiles with countless carvings on them. Carvings in a language that he did not speak. They were finely arranged and almost perfectly cut. The overseer had never seen anything like it. To the left and right of the hallway there were pillars reaching up a few meters high. Only a few candles were attached to them every now and then, giving some light. The further the overseer looked up, the darker it got. Still he seemed to catch some slight movements in the dark up there on the ceiling. But then again, it could be his weary mind playing tricks on him. Only the torch one of the war-guards held shed some light to make out that they were not floating inside the ain soph already. Every now and then there were small groups of three or four Kramh standing around a pillar concentrated on performing some kind of ritual. There was always one scribbling some words or drawings on a pillar while the other two or three stood around him chanting. Every group seemed to sing the same phrase over and over again. Something like â€œThe sleepless are dreaming with him.â€? The words did not make any sense to the overseer. He did not dare to palpably look at them, the gods only know what they were up to. He kept his gaze pinned to the floor and kept on walking with his companions. The further they came, the more the strength of the warguards seemed to increase, almost impending the blood to flow through his veins. The overseer felt a strong aura radiating from them. An aura that was choking his thoughts. This place was horrid. With every step he took things kept getting stranger. He heard voices. Whispers. His head started to spin and his vision -7-
became blurry again. The war-guards were unimpressed by all of this. Was he the only one feeling it? Was it his wound that was playing games with his wit? As the whispers started to get louder and louder he started to lose his reason and felt like the walls of the hallway were whispering at him, talking to him. Was he still dreaming and floating unconscious somewhere? “What is this place? Get me out of here! Do you hear them? The walls! They are whispering to me! The are talking to me! What is this?” he screamed in anguish almost beyond reason. “The walls aren't talking to you, overseer. You are talking to them. They are merely answering you. And besides, we are almost near the gate. And you can surely imagine that the opening of the gate is nothing a mortal should ever witness.” And as soon as he finished the sentence the other war-guard pulled out his axe and hit him straight in the face with its shaft knocking him unconscious once more. He fell to floor to be dragged around again. “How unpleasant. I hope he doesn't get used to passing out twice a day.” one war-guard said to the other, and both burst out in laughter. The overseer however faded from consciousness again, but anything was better than hearing walls speak to you, he thought to himself as he drifted away.
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