A fairytale by the Oneiroi, translated.
They have travelled far and wide, the lonely man of many faces and his faithful follower. They've heard the hints of the dark dog begotten of time's storm; won the battle at the falls of Stheno's youngest, cursed sister; and each escaped Anesidora's entrapping tomb.
They travel together in an ancient, stolen vessel, inadequately maintained, and insufficiently repaired. The interior is spacious, filled with the technical apparatus needed to pilot such a complex craft. The workmanship is arcane: once beautiful and elegant, now extensively jury-rigged, a half-working relic of the majestic civilization which constructed it. There were once fleets of these, each piloted by six skilled crew; now the lonely man may be the only being left who can even come close to manning the helm.
Today, however, is not his day. Without ill-wind or storm, obstacle or shoal, the craft flies wild through dark skies, cartwheeling back and forth without rhyme or reason, be