Sleep is such a funny thing with Micolash. He rejects it and avoids it while in the Waking, the realm mortals know simply as reality. But in the Nightmare, awakening is the one thing he reviles and rejects hardest. Awakening cost him dearly the last time it had happened, the pain of losing his revelation hugely dwarfing the loss of life when a hunter hacked him to pieces. Death itself was distressing, yes, but only because it meant an end of his attempts at ascension. And that fear was assuaged entirely, if mysteriously, when the scholar awoke in the Nexus instead. A bizarre blessing, even moreso now that he and Abysa know the mechanics and particulars of his arrival. (With still plenty of mystery as to the hows and whys.)
To think this night nearly put a sudden end to Micolash's unlikely second chance at life.
The magic works as Abysa hoped it would, keeping the human asleep through all of the priest's tasks. He does not wake during the cleaning, turning, changing of the sheets. Instead, he dreams strangely. Very strangely. Images that make little sense and are entirely unfamiliar.
A striped tent with a straw carpet and empty, broken cages. A dustbowl, the land gone arid and fallow. The distant sound of gunfire. A party of white-dressed people, silently mingling amongst themselves, hiding their faces. A small hamlet gone deadly silent. A building burns bright and unchecked. A metal building, the material making up every surface, awash in red light. A dark dungeon, the floors stained with old blood. A lone, bloodied knife the only thing there. A vice-like cage lined with inward facing spikes. Already sprung and closed. A grander version of his Nightmare of Mensis, resplendent with staircases and fog.
It is two days before the scholar awakens.
He stirs first, attempting to raise an arm that's underneath the covers, wanting to bring it to rub at his face. The inside of his mouth tastes like copper. Hesitantly, he opens his eyes.
Nothing. He sees nothing.
Micolash rushes to tug his arm free now, yanking it from under the covers. His muscles ache but he doesn't notice. His hand touches his face, his eyes, feeling for a bandage or a covering.
There is none.
His fingers are soon shaking when he feels closer. Ensuring that, yes, his eyes are open. He is touching his eyelids and they are open fully. He is staring upwards from his bed.
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To think this night nearly put a sudden end to Micolash's unlikely second chance at life.
The magic works as Abysa hoped it would, keeping the human asleep through all of the priest's tasks. He does not wake during the cleaning, turning, changing of the sheets. Instead, he dreams strangely. Very strangely. Images that make little sense and are entirely unfamiliar.
A striped tent with a straw carpet and empty, broken cages.
A dustbowl, the land gone arid and fallow. The distant sound of gunfire.
A party of white-dressed people, silently mingling amongst themselves, hiding their faces.
A small hamlet gone deadly silent. A building burns bright and unchecked.
A metal building, the material making up every surface, awash in red light.
A dark dungeon, the floors stained with old blood. A lone, bloodied knife the only thing there.
A vice-like cage lined with inward facing spikes. Already sprung and closed.
A grander version of his Nightmare of Mensis, resplendent with staircases and fog.
It is two days before the scholar awakens.
He stirs first, attempting to raise an arm that's underneath the covers, wanting to bring it to rub at his face. The inside of his mouth tastes like copper. Hesitantly, he opens his eyes.
Nothing.
He sees nothing.
Micolash rushes to tug his arm free now, yanking it from under the covers. His muscles ache but he doesn't notice. His hand touches his face, his eyes, feeling for a bandage or a covering.
There is none.
His fingers are soon shaking when he feels closer. Ensuring that, yes, his eyes are open. He is touching his eyelids and they are open fully. He is staring upwards from his bed.
And he sees.
Nothing.
Micolash screams.