>>5935232[Noted]
>>5935227>>5935219>>5935191>>5935092>>5935075You wake up from a dream—a troubled dream, though you can scarcely remember it now. There was stone, though, and solitude, and an oppressive weight. You felt incredibly alone, and helpless, and even when you raised your hands before your face you saw through them—ghost-like, as if you were one again losing control of your tangible, material form. And there was a woman—a decaying woman, with loathing in her eyes and in her heart, and you couldn’t understand why she so despised you.
Already, though, the dream fades. You wake in Costella’s arms, her face nuzzled into you hair and her own hair across your face. Izzy, unnaturally warm and less cuddly in her sleep, is nevertheless pressed up against you on the other side, her rear pressed to your hip and her feet brushing against your own. Waking up like this, how can you feel anything BUT loved? You blow Costella’s hair out of your face, and gingerly extract yourself. The dream fades from half-memory to nothing and is gone.
When you pick up the Archmage’s gifted staff, it feels heavy in your hand, but the feeling is fleeting.
You exit your tent and check out the other—that which shelters Pearce and the Thief and the two coachdrivers. The remains of last night’s fire still shoulder, and so with a flick of the staff you launch a miniature <Fireball> to reignite it, and help yourself to some reheated rations—still fresh enough to be almost as edible as real food! Little Veloz joins you, returning from his night-flight replenish his reserves; luckily, the number of flowering bushes and trees only increases as you approach the Sylvan Realms, though they are still relatively magically inert.
“You’re going to love the woods,” you promise the little bird, gently stroking his plumage as he settles upon your knee. “The ambient aura there’s ALMOST as rich as on the moon.”
“You have been upon the moon?”
You practically jump out of your skin at the sound of the Thief’s voice, so close at hand. He settles down across from you, still appearing as an elf—and one with curiosity writ across his features.
“Uh… Yes,” you say, since denying it now would just be silly.
“Is it not a holy realm among followers of your gods?” he asks. “Such places are reserved for demigods and honoured dead, yes?”
“Well, I was sort of ghostly at the time,” you say, deflecting. “I got better.”
“That clarifies very little,” the Thief notes.
“There are some secrets which we’re all obligated to keep,” you say, in what you hope is the sort of stern voice which communicates finality.
“This is fair,” the Thief notes solemnly. “Your gods must hold you in quite high regard, then.”
You say nothing, but your expression must speak volumes.
