Prisoner, Breton, Level 2
Sundas 8:52 PM, 17th of Last Seed, 4E 201
The few hours of sleep I manage to steal are not restful. My dreams are raucus, full of screams and the clash of swords. I see in the carnage the faces of those who would have done me harm and those who tried. The faces of those I have ended.
Through the fog of war, voices call to me. I see towering figures of stone watching over me, their words soft and full of longing. They are beautiful and terrifying. Their power ripples over me, as it had when I first encountered the wolf. Every fiber of my being cries out for answers.Why did I awaken? I must find them. I must know.
I awake in the darkness, my old friend . Sweat coats my skin, whether from the fitful dreams or the dim but warm fire beside me, I cannot say. Night has fallen heavily over the mountains, but the moon shines bright. At the sight, I feel that ache of lonliness return, and with a now easy flick of my hand, I call forth my companion from the nether. He watches me for a long moment, then howls gleefully at the sight of the orb above. The moon fills the dark world with a pale blue glow. I both welcome the sight of the land outstretched before me in the moonlight, and hate the exposure it forces upon me.
The fire beside me is dimming, and a familiar growling comes from my gut. Rising from my bedroll with sharp pains and aches shooting through my body, I pry a few strips of tough meat from the carcass on the cooling spit. With food and soon water, I have some strength to venture to the edge of the woods circling the encampment. I follow the wolf’s swift steps, finally wandering from the safety of my stolen camp, past the cooling corpses of the bandits I felled that afternoon. I am surprised to find the chill in the air refreshing.
It is a short walk in the pale bright moonlight, before my companion and I narrow our gaze on a fox. My aim is getting sharper; I hit it with my first shot. With my new steel dagger, from the bandits’ camp, I free the creature of its snowy pelt. Draping it over my bare shoulders, I bind the dead fox’s legs together to haul it back to my camp. Still warm from its previous owner, the fur fends off much of the cold.
Soon, the fox’s body has replaced the cold animal on the fire spit.