rolled 4, 2, 3 = 9
It is the eighth day of the eleventh month. The time has come.
It began with a spark, a shiver, a feeling of unease moving swiftly up your spine. You had been pacing, walking briskly from one end of the bridge to the other, speaking a long, regular chain of ideas into the radio like your lungs were run by clock. You stopped, suddenly motionless, and the Captain of your intrepid ship, the Lance of Hretmar, swiveled in her chair to face you, with a pained expression, full of stress.
“Countess? Are you alright?”
The image was crystal-clear, burning in your brain. A long and torturous night had ended. The day had come. Your pantheon, your gods, had returned, as the herald of this, your greatest battle. It was a pillar, a finely-shaped stone you know so well, for it stands at the head of your manor, its plaque proclaiming to all who pass, “Built neither by gods nor kings, but ordinary men. By the belief of she who believes in you, seize the day.”
It was the only thing left standing. A solitary idol in a desolate wasteland. Devoid of life, of civilization, of all but the dust, the bones of ages past. Above it, as your eyes came up, the shining glimmer of that great city, the floating fortress of Kharok, triumphant. A laugh, brief and terrible, the laugh of one who has seen their enemies fall in droves before them, who has stood upon the bloodied ground and seen only victory. A laugh that sounded so much like your own.
It ended, leaving you there with a single phrase running through your mind, the combined voices of your patrons, your friends and allies above. “I believe in you.”