It was dusk and night was soon approaching, but to that she paid no heed. She had come a long way and found the rolling hills, the forests, the mountains. Away from the desert and the sun's harsh oppression, a sweet breeze blew. It caressed with the tips of its fingers the grass and the stones, sliding over the swaying leaves. She watched the clouds as they passed, beneath a blue sky on her back. Creatures with names unknown to her passed by on long legs, taking the time to taste the grasses. She greeted them, and they turned to look, before moving on. Lying here against the good earth, the dream-walker recounted an old poem she had heard the nomads sing while they passed through the streets of the marketplace back home. There was an old blind man in particular, whose eyes were milky white and carried a gnarled staff bearing many bells and bangles. 

'When I sink my eye into your eyes, I catch a glimpse of a deep dawn.
And I see an ancient yesterday–and I see what I do not know.
And I feel the universe flowing between my eye and yours.'

As she repeated the words, her eyelids became heavy and soon was lulled off to sleep. Cradled within the waves of grass, she slept and dreamed. The rugged terrain was hardy and wild, with a proud modesty. This place here belonged to the creatures of the wild alone, but it had chosen to share itself with the tribes of men. Within the soil and sky there resided a resonant energy that hummed in unison and harmony. As she faded out of consciousness, she felt herself becoming one with it.

The dream was beautiful and bright. Unlike the sea of stars, the skies were clear and cloudless in broad daylight. An endless expanse of tall grass stretched before her, and the stalks themselves reached above her knees. It was a wide and grand, grassy plain with no hills or mountains. Small wildflowers in delicate cups of sunshine yellow and pale pink like powder hid among the blades of grass. There was not a single spot that was barren to interrupt the endless waves of green. A gentle breeze blew continuously, causing the plants to bow their heads as she passed as if to say hello. Flocks of birds flew overhead, twittering in varying pitches and patterns. They danced in the winds, chasing and teasing each other as they sang. Sitting up, she brushed her hands against the ripples of green as she walked and curious winged and many-legged creatures no bigger than a hand came to follow her. They were translucent and ethereal, as if made out of pure light. As they glided through the air, they left colored trails in their wake. When they came close enough they whispered in her ears, often in phrases or words that were unrelated. She counted at least twenty of them, with many more hiding in the flowers' blossoms. Holding out her hands, a long segmented one curled up in them and chattered non sequiturs. As she listened, one of the other creatures said: "Death comes–it comes, it comes." The others in response replied, "Circling, chasing, watching, waiting." Confused, she wondered why their behavior had undergone such a sudden change when the one she was holding said to her, "They are coming for you, wake up! Wake up!"

She had opened her eyes and found herself under attack. Night was making its arrival and with it came a pack of shadowy dogs. She had attempted to convince them of peace, but they had no heart to listen. In the act of self-defense and preservation she took up arms and stood her ground, dodging their blows, swirling, and cutting. However their numbers were too great, and she soon found herself cornered. The dream-walker could not defend against all of them at once, and had been injured. With katars raised high and her left leg bleeding, she was in dire need of help. The fading whispers from the dream world were worried and anxious, but she remained resolute. Though she did not wish to shed blood, she did not wish to grieve the heart of her master Rashaad. She could not falter here.

The savage baying of the hounds split the delicate landscape of Hrafriðr's preemptive dreams, waking her to the twilight of night's approach. The sleep was quick to slip away as she stood from the pale, waist-high grasses in which she had dozed off, well hidden from stray eyes. Stooping, she quickly picked up the small, metal buckler from the ground at her feet, her nerves raw and alert. These days, the call of the wolfhounds put her on edge, relentlessly pursued by various clansmen of the Highlands as she currently was. That even wild wolfhounds called out when they had surrounded their prey had proven terribly unnerving since.

Even so, Hrafriðr's haggard face split into an eager grin at the sound. She had used the last of her rations a few days ago, and the prospect of a fresh meal, either stealing the prey of the wolfhounds or killing one of the great dogs while they were distracted, infused the muscles of the hunted mercenary with a surge of vigor. Quickly shouldering the buckler, her right hand seized the hatchet from her belt as she bolted forward.

The high grass was a pale blur as it whipped beneath her, assailing her drab and simply clothing as she hurtled forward into the copse of trees from whence she heard the predator's call. The forms of the wild beasts came into sight quickly as the tall grass dropped away, too focused on their prey to notice the rushing mercenary until she was on top of them, hacking savagely in an attempt to weaken and injure even one of their numbers. The wolfhounds fell back from the wild attack as the first of the pack fell, retreating quickly, their meal no longer so outnumbered.

Panting, exhausted from the exertion, Hrafriðr barely noticed the girl as she knelt and began to cut open the fallen beast before her. It wasn't until she had removed most the contents from the wolfhound and was working on skinning the animal that she noticed the slim girl, not quite a full woman, whom she had inadvertently aided, fire-red hair of the same kind that so many of the highlanders sported. She paused in her cutting, though thoughts of her meal did not leave her mind quite so easily.

"I hope I wasn't unwelcoming in my interruption." Hrafriðr smiled, doing her best to seem disarming. It was not a face which came naturally—rather it seemed to twist her face into a fierce and predatory look. She spared a glance away from the girl, realizing that she was arm deep in a wolfhound, covered in its gore. "I saw an opportunity for an easy meal." She offered in way of explanation, shrugging as she resumed the work set before her. In moments, the fur the of the wolfhound lay separated from the meat. "This is awfully far out from any of the villages. Where are you from?"

She had blinked, or had it been longer than that? In a moment, she had been facing a pack of wild dogs; in the next she saw herself no longer endangered thanks to the swift blows of a stranger. The dream-walker had stared on as she watched the woman gut and skin the animals in silence, until the other became aware of her. With a light of reverent thankfulness, she lowered her arms to her sides. "…Oh, thank you for aiding me efendi! This act of kindness surely must have been brought by fate. Here I doubted on whether to stand fast, or to run–but it seems the heavens have smiled upon me. Many thanks to you." She bowed deeply, to show her gratitude. The woman continued skinning and cleaning out the animal. Perhaps she was in a hunter's line of work, for meat or for skins. The sight of the fallen beast was not pleasant, but it was an unfortunate resolution. The animal might have chosen to attack out of hunger than for the sake of malevolence.

The woman was speaking to her again; she had nearly forgotten when she caught herself staring at her eyes. They seemed to glow as if they were panes of glass with a light behind them, like the dream-fire within the realm of dreams. The woman's hair was black as night, deep and dark like the endless ocean that carried the stars. There was a strange feeling from her, cold but brimming with vigor akin to a rushing river. "Ah…yes. I journeyed across the great waters, mountains, and valleys." Gale motioned, moving her arm slowly as if to convey the vast distance she had traveled. She continued to answer any questions the woman might have on why she had come here. "…I came here to dream. To dream beneath a sea of grass and an endless sky, where the wilds whisper yonder. The forest dark and sinister lies beyond here. 'Take care not to set foot within'–they said to me; for within lies malevolence." 

The tribes of the highlands had looked upon her with warm eyes,  at times with ones moist and reddened. She knew not why they did so, but they had kindly welcomed her when she offered stories to tell. The children loved them, and many times by the fire did they make the men and women smile. Every night they would ask her for a tale, a new telling of enchantment and wonder. They laughed, they sang, they wept, they shouted. But at the end, they cheered and clapped their hands when one ended and one began. Though she did not know how to hunt, fish, or till the earth she could tell them stories and bring joy to their faces. They had asked her of her kin, but she said she had none. Not here, she had told them–but somewhere else, far away beyond the beyond. They had looked somber after that, but she could not understand why. Perhaps they feared that she would be lonely. Indeed there were times when her heart was heavy, and felt emptiness. But as long as she held her memories of her master Rashaad close, those feelings would vanish. Someone once called it 'homesickness', but she was far from being so. Sometimes, one needed to wait for the right time and place to find the answers to their questions. One day she would find a way to return home, but until then she would continue to wait for that door.

"Fate is what we make of it, girl." The black-haired woman's grim face twisted into an ironic smile. Fate—a crutch for the naive and simple, though Hrafriðr had the good sense not to say as much to somebody she had only just met. Instead, she listened as the girl spoke, being able to somewhat relate to such a lengthy journey. It was a similar travel from Itjivut: mountains, great waters, and valleys alike, though this young girl had neither the look nor the speech of either the Ramaldi or the Hiafae. It had been a strange urging which had brought Hrafriðr to the Highlands, though only after her time amongst the trees of Laeto had been met with that inexplicable and inplacable despair. Even now, she could not have said what had brought her to either that jungle or these mountains, but it stirred at the mention of forests dark.

"Wolves hunt in the forest dark," Hrafriðr spoke, scarcely knowing from whence the words came. "Dressed in the robes of a healer, sheltered by the templed shack." She felt the pang of loss as the phrase passed her lips, sorrow filling her voice for a reason she didn't fully understand. Light-green eyes looked from her kill and held the fire-haired girl before her contemplatively, as though weighing her on a carefully set scale. "If ever you hear of such a forest, one filled with a dark and sinister malevolence, I would be most glad to hear of it. Some strange part of me longs for what you describe, I know not why." She regarded the young girl for a moment more before returning to her work, placing her hatchet and the blood-matted pelt into her belt and slinging the fresh corpse over her shoulder before standing.

"In any case, that is a rather vague non-answer to my question." A wry and good-humored smile twisted onto the face of the raven-haired lady. "I plan on moving further into these trees," she gestured to the copse of trees upon which they bordered, "Away from easy view, lighting a small fire, and cooking myself a feast of a meal. I am called Hrafriðr, and you're welcome to join me if you give me your own name." She paused, considering briefly before she spoke again. "Something more specific, perhaps than a handwave." With one hand, she steadied the carcass on her shoulder, the other she imitated the gesture which the girl had earlier given.

Hrafriðr moved forward into the small grove of trees, hoping that the thin, though numerous, trunks would be enough to hide the light of a fire from the careful eyes of her pursuers. It was a risk, but eating more than the heart and the liver of the animal came with more probable dangers. Carefully, she laid the creature out, and in little time had a small flame alight, the various cuts of the animal separated and spitted, the succulent aroma of cooking meat wafting from the sizzling meat.

"Would you like to share with me?" Hrafriðr offered kindly, a stick of greasy meat stretched out to the girl.

She nodded, as she listened. "Wolves yes, there are. These plains are vibrant with life and energy. Though I have yet to hear of wolves that wear clothes; perhaps they are neither wolf nor man. Wolves already come into the world clothed, in furs no less." The dream-weaver looked downward resting her head on her hand in contemplation before continuing. "If you wish to find the forest, you need not go far. The people here clearly pointed it to me, as they warned me. …There." She pointed, the direction of her arm drawing attention to a patch of forest by itself, surrounded by grassland on all sides. Even the very stones around it were left untouched by the animals, as if they had an instinctual understanding that danger lay there. "If you wish to go, it is a sad and lonely place. Here it is much happier, and quiet too." She had heard in the twilight hours the sounds of someone sobbing as if their heart had been broken beyond repair. It was a deep wailing, one that seemed to shake the core of one's very being. Oh how she would have longed to comfort those who were weeping, though her words might only give meager solace. But the tribesmen paled at the thought, and implored her not to go near. Those voices were not the voices of the living, they warned her. It would do her no good to give compassion to those who had no use for it. If she were to go, she would never return.

"Hrafriðr…" Gale repeated the name, listening to the sound from her own lips. "It is a good name, strong and stalwart like the silent mountains." It spoke of might and power, with an edge of coldness. It was a fitting name. Taking a seat to watch the woman cook the meat by the fire, she crossed her legs and folded her hands. "My name is Gale, like the wind. Many thanks for inviting me into your company." The fire was a small fire, not like the fires the tribes here had. There was only the two of them, so maybe a big fire was not necessary. Her attention drifted off as she watched the flames dance, searing the meat before being called. Taking her eyes off the fire she saw the raven-haired woman offering a piece of the cooked meat to her. In response, she nodded her head and stretched her hands out to receive the food graciously. "Yes, I would like to." Taking the food she held the stick in her hands as she waited for Hrafriðr would take another piece for herself. Curious as to why the stranger would be interested in a dangerous place, she spoke. "Why do you wish to see the forest, even though within lies malevolence? Do you have a purpose in meaning to go? If you go there, you may never leave. So the people here have told me, and the little ones have told me too."

In the world of dreams, the direction of the forbidden forest was barred by an impassable field from every which way. No matter if she went around, forward, or from the sides–something would pull her back to where she had started. Each time she would almost cross over, moments later she would be standing in the endless grass looking at the island of trees from afar. The ground around the trees was nonexistent, and the area was shrouded by a heavy silence. It was strange. There was some intangible force present that refused to let her approach. The little insects of light would chatter away about darkness, poison, and staying away before going back to speaking nonsense. Even the birds in her dreams of the highlands never left the blue cloudless sky for the trees there. Perhaps a terrible beast lay within the shadows of darkness. But what could be so terrifying that even the boldest of the highlanders' men would fear it more than death?

"I'm not certain what it meant of wolves or a templed shack, it was just something I heard long ago." The lie came easily to Hrafriðr's tongue as Gale took the dripping meat from her hand. The hanged man had placed the words into her head, dreamt them into existence, she was certain of it. She smiled as she removed a skewer for herself from the fire, tearing ravenously with her hands, the juice dripping down her arms and face as she bit into it. She could not help the satisfied grin that came over her as she tore flesh from bone. The meal had definitely been worth the risk.

She scarcely paused for nearly a dozen bites, barely tasting the meal as she hungrily devoured. When at last the raw, sharp edge of her appetite had been dulled to a mere ache, she wiped her lips on the back of her hand before speaking once more. "Gale." The word was warm as it crossed her lips. "If my name is strong like silent mountains, yours is as aloof and as strange as an ocean breeze. A relief from the blistering bite of the sun."

She began to eat once more, until she had consumed her fill and more, her eyes alternating between resting on the girl and watching the small stretch of woods to which the girl had earlier indicated. Fate suddenly felt less a contrived notion, less an invention of simpletons and children than it had even an hour ago. She knew that she should not answer this girls inquiries, and yet what could be the harm to answer truthfully the questions of one so young? Internally, she debated as she pulled out a waterskin, trickling a small stream onto her hand to wipe away the meal's residue before finally resolving to tell Gale the truth.

"A man from my dreams waits for me, somewhere, amidst trees of ill-intent, such a place as you describe. I was lead to believe I would find him first in the Laeto Rainforest." Hrafriðr paused, her throat constricting as she remember the heart-wrenching loss she had felt when she had found nothing there. "Next, I came here, and have been searching for some time now. In truth, I abandoned the effort not months past." And she would not have ever made her way to this region, she suspected, had the clansmen not began their hunt for her. "It sounds crazy, perhaps, but I have dreamed of this man a very long time. Within a shack, in a lonely and malevolent place—" Hrafriðr gestured to the trees even as Gale had. "Even one as you describe—is precisely where I see him."

Hrafriðr turned the full weight of her gaze upon the young, fire-haired girl with whom she shared both fire and food. "And if I were to enter that place, Gale, would you refuse to follow? Would you wait for my return here?"

"Ah…so one has reached out to you in your dreams. This is a troubling thing." For once, her usual look of serenity was clouded over with concern. The dream's details themselves were disconcerting, but it seemed as if this woman was not merely plagued with nightmares. It was as if the dream itself had possessed her, driving her towards its origin. Had she crossed paths with Hrafriðr sooner, perhaps she might have been able to halt its attempt on consuming her thoughts into the waking world. "If the one who reaches out to you is no longer in the land of the living, then I would beseech you to reconsider. There are two kinds of people who call out to open ears through the dreaming realm: those who cry for help, and those who call with a darker purpose. By now, it is likely the man you seek is merely a lingering remnant unwilling to pass on; seeking those with life still within them." Gale looked down, and turned the skewer of meat in her hands with a somber face.

"He calls for a selfish reason, and his desires have consumed him. I cannot go with you, as they will not let me. I cannot go near the place. However, if you still choose to go, I will wait for you here." She answered to Hrafriðr's last question. "May you return in peace, and the heavens grant you fortune." She had nothing to give the woman to keep her safe in her journey into the deep dark, something that made her heart heavy with regret. She could only hope that she would find her way back out again.

"You are young—how are you so certain about such things? Surely the things of dreams are not so absolute as this, dark and selfish being a matter of perspective?" Hrafriðr lapsed into silence, knowing that she was searching for an excuse, any excuse, to justify her need to investigate the trees which Gale unhesitantly refused to enter. Part of her was relieved that Gale would not accompany her, should she go, the other longed for nothing more than the girl's company in this endeavor. As to the identity of the persons who would prevent Gale from going near the stretch of forest, curiosity lit the pale-green of Hrafriðr, though she asked not a word regarding the matter. Instead, she chuckled underneath her breath, her gaze turning from the girl to the embers of the flame. "You are probably right, wise beyond your years. It is unlikely to be my man, in any case."

Carefully, the mercenary placed another log on the fire before standing. Gathering her things, she placed them in a small pile. She had very few belongings beyond the clothing upon her back: her sword and buckler of Highland make, cloak, hand axe, the blood-matted pelt she had earned not hours ago, and a tattered bag which held her waterskin. She inspected her belongings for a moment, as though contemplating something, before retrieving her handaxe. She gestured with the weapon at the pile. "I am compelled to investigate. If I'm not back by morning, take what you can carry. Use what you can, sell the rest."

Then Hrafriðr left Gale's company, drawn into the darkness by the gossamer spider threads which had long since ensnared her mind.

The path to the tree line was short, and as Hrafriðr approached, she understood why the animals avoided the place: no doubt they could sense the same sinister dread that seemed to fill her as she stepped over some invisible line which marked a very definite boundary. It was a sourceless thing, without name or cause, and it seemed to ooze through the very air. She hesitated for a moment, more uncertain now that she would find what she sought in this forbidden place. She continued her trek forward.

An hour passed, then two, time needling away until the small fire burned low. Only then did Hrafriðr once again step from the trees, a wild look pressed upon her face, her axe clutched tightly as though only its smooth, bone handle kept her anchored to the mortal realm. Wordlessly, she moved to sit by the fire, her eyes near vacant as she stoked the embers and placed upon it the evening's final log.

When finally Hrafriðr spoke, her voice was soft and shaken. "He called himself strange titles, and spoke of our world in strange ways." Her eyes reflected the small fire as a bright mix of awe and fear. "I do not think he was dead, nor some mere malign spirit seeking some sinister end. He made me—" she cut herself off, her words hanging incomplete in the air. She shook her head slightly before her lips twitched into a small laugh. "What do I do with myself now, Gale? What is your goal which drives you?"

"The world of dreams is ever-changing, however within always lies a grain of truth. The dream world is like a mirror–it can only reflect what exists in the waking world. This is one of the many truths I have been taught as one who walks within dreams. You are right, most dreams are not so when they are limited to the dreamer. But it is when they reach beyond the dreamer to affect others that intent must be judged. To share one's dreams with an unknown stranger when unconscious is not a small feat." This was as much as she could say from her personal experience and instruction under Master Rashaad. Gale did not wish to burden Hrafriðr with more words than necessary, simply explaining the danger was enough. "My wisdom is not my own, but hath been imparted to me from my master, who in turn was given the same wisdom from the wise men and women before him."

Watching the woman prepare her things to enter the forbidden forest, she gave a nod to imply she understood what she meant. It was kind of her, but she hoped she wouldn't have to do so. Her gaze stayed on Hrafriðr's form as the raven-haired woman slowly disappeared into the trees completely. Once she was out of sight, the young dream-walker tended to the fire and ate the piece of meat which had now gone cold. In the light of the fire's renewed strength, she began to meditate to bring her emotions and thoughts back into balance. Not willing to drift off into sleep until Hrafriðr returned, meditation would put her in a state between wakefulness and unconsciousness. As her eyes closed, she heard the familiar wail of the weeping revenants far off. She prayed that Hrafriðr would be safe.

In the accursed wood, the sounds of unearthly ritual and mania drifted through the air. Wild women with liaisons unholy performed taboo rituals beneath the forest's darkness. Around bonfires they conducted obscenities as the smell and sound of wickedness and malevolence filled the atmosphere. The evil they wrought increased that of the evil already present, but not by much. There was something else lurking here far more sinister than the witching hour's palpable darkness.

From Gale, there came no answer: the silence was overbearing as it filled the air. Shuddering, Hrafriðr wrapped her arms around her as the night seemed to drop to a frigid temperature. Goosebumps covered her arms, and she shivered slightly before leaning in closer to the flickering flames. The light of the fire felt pale and lifeless against her skin as she waited, lacking in warmth regardless of how closely she leaned to it.

"Gale?" She turned to the girl, and fell backwards on her hands as she recoiled in horror. From the girl's mouth spilled a multitude of writhing appendages, seething and roiling in a violent hunger which seemed reflected in the things bulbous eyes, from which oozed a viscous, atramentous fluid. It hissed and seemed to disassemble from the shape of a young teenager into something which bent and moved in sharp, disjointed motions towards Hrafriðr. A hideous shrieking sound seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere, filled with the voices of a thousand eager fiends. She could feel her heart pound, her head throb as though a great pressure were placed upon it. She tried to scream, and yet no sound left her lips as she lay, sprawled and paralyzed at the fiend which moved upon her. Finally, unable to bear the sight of the thing that had formed from her friend, Hrafriðr squeezed shut her eyes.

"So, we have at last found one another." The voice was calm, and soft, like the scales of a snake slithering against silk. She opened her eyes, and found the landscape around her changed. Gone was the luminous and empty flames, gone was the foul and aberrant thing. She remained, sprawled upon the ground, but beneath her she could feel hewn lumber, worn from countless steps. Rotting wood stretched around her, the scent of dust and mold heavy in the air of the dilapidated building which she found herself in. It could not be much more than a shack, a single room which scarcely had room to fit her, the intricately carved oaken stool, and the fireplace at the corner.

She knew this place, knew it more intimately than any other. She had stood in this place every night for years. Had her dreams become reality, cast into being by whatever wickedness had waited in the forest? Or perhaps the shack had been waiting here, for her.

'Where am I?' Her thoughts were loud in her head as she took in every detail of the world around her. She could remember entering the forest, remember being filled with trepidation and dread as she made her way through the overgrowth. And then what? She had come out? What had happened during those hours. What of Gale?

"This is my home. I have searched through threads of dreams which are countless in numbers to find one whom I might bring here, to this place where worlds meet."

Hrafriðr whipped her head around, her eyes scanning the darkness carefully for the man who had spoken an answer to her unasked question. She found him quickly, leaning in the far corner of the ramshackle building. He was tall and lank, his body shrouded in priestly vestments of pallid hue, though dark stains covered the pale fabric. Even in the dark, she could see his cold, hard eyes which seemed to cut away at the night's inky darkness like a razor. He smiled, as a spider might smile upon a fly, a wolf upon a doe.

"Do you like it, Hrafriðr?"

Hrafriðr's blood turned to ice in her veins as he spoke her name. He approached her, the space between them warping and twisting as though the space itself protested his presence, his boots scraped at the floor as he moved to tower over her. Slowly, she shook her head. He grinned.

"No, nor do I. It is a dying place—the whole of the world is quickly fading into nothing, and I am confined here by snares of my own making." The room pulsated and churned and suddenly she was standing before a mirror, the man gone from sight, though his voice still echoed clearly about her, as if he stood over her shoulder. "Imagine my surprise when I strode the dreams and found a mirror world, a parallel to my own?" Her reflection moved, seemingly of its own accord. "I looked within this world, through eyes mine but not my own, and saw a world that was my own and yet different."

"Who are you?" Her voice shook as she spoke, and in response, she felt a pain as though a hot poker had been jammed through her eye socket, with fingers that dug and probed in her mind, heedless of the searing agony it caused. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the pain dissipated.

"A you that could have been, that was and will never be again. I am the Apothecary, and I bring for you a final gift." The reflection before her changed until it showed the scarecrow of a man that called himself the Apothecary, he stretched forth a fist, fingers clasped tightly. Slowly, the fingers loosed their hold, revealing a pale shard of black light, which seemed to consume the night about it like a hungry flame.

Wordlessly, as though controlled by some other force, she reached forward and took the strange thing. It sank into her skin, cold and hot all at once where it pierced into her, filling her with flame and molten stone as the world flared up and melted all about her before disappearing into a sourceless and blinding light, a single command ringing in the air.

"Go, and tell your friend to be wary, for I have seen the minions of the Nightmare King hunting."

______________________________________________________________


The world swam into focus, the trees looming up and about Hrafriðr. Her head throbbed, and she realized she was on the ground, as though fallen. Slowly, she sat up, hissing in pain as she put her fingers to her temple and they came away sticky and moist. She had fallen, tripped over some root in the dark and struck her head on a tree, no doubt.

It took a concerted effort to stand, and an even more careful effort to find her way from where she had fallen to the end of the trees. It surprised her how little progress she had made into their depths before her mishap: scarcely four dozen paces from where the fire, and Gale, were visible. Her steps heavy, her hand to her head, she lumbered out from the stretch of forest and made her way to her new companion before practically collapsing. Her voice was pained as she spoke to the fire-headed woman, vaguely aware of some lingering fear that this was not the real Gale.

"I either have a concussion, or you need to worry about something called the Nightmare King. Care to tell me which seems more likely, dear?"