Gwyn falls into a dreamlike state as she is transported across Athas by her Wish spell. Though the Teleportation is instantaneous, it is as though she has hours to contemplate her journey.
Where are we going? I can tell just by the pull of the wind that we aren’t headed to Nibenay. Why should we be? What’s one more thing going wrong? Shit.
Gwyn sees the forms of two noble men, each decorated with the signets of great houses of Athas. They rise up toward her from the desert, before vanishing into dust.
Even as a child among the Sky Singers I knew I had the power to preserve, to respect and maintain balance among the life contained within my arcane gifts. As I mastered this art I came to believe that it might allow me to become a hero…to bring growth and vibrancy to this place. Was that too naive? Perhaps in the unforgiving dryness of Athas no one is able to become a hero. Vinara, Morg, Elleandra, Jarvix, Kelvor, Thea, and the others…they came so close, and now they are dead. And for what? So that I and my current compatriots can let loose Ul-Athra? Allow a sorcerer-king to roam the Silt Sea and do as he pleases with our crew? I fear we have made one too many mistakes.
Gwyn has visions of two hideous floating heads bouncing around in the ether – each growling hungrily. One of them snarls, “We will never taste your blood now.”
I’ve never believed in fate. My mother and my birth father were both evil – I never once allowed myself to think I would go down a similar path, instead believing that I would make my own meaning. Now I question whether there is even such a thing. After leaving Moil, which nearly broke me, I was ready to start anew, taking flight on these scaled wings and moving ever faster toward our triumph – toward a brighter day for Athas. Now I can’t bring myself to imagine that this day will ever come.