Michael groaned as he sluggishly massaged his face frozen in a torpid state. He clung on the [Precious Cloak] tightly wrapped around his mantle, tugging on it like a blanket as he couldn't stop yawning. He couldn't shake the light tears from the corner of his eyes.
He reached out his pale hand and warmed it against the roaring flames, the fiery embers disappearing into the night like vibrant, drifting stars. His fingers numbed by sweat were slowly mending, bit by bit as the wrinkles disappeared.
The crackles and pops of the fire were quiet, but amongst the silence, all he could hear was ceaseless whispers. Sometimes they were incomprehensible or beyond Michael's ability to hear, other times they were deafening like a horrid symphony. Between them, it seemed the breeze was trying to talk to him as well, communicating with incoherent cries and wails. It wouldn't be surprising since millions of graves surrounded him, probably all desperate to take their chance at another life. They were just waiting for Michael to close his eyes, and as soon as he did, they would do... something.
"They might do a better job than you."
Michael abruptly winced and smacked his face, chasing off the lethargy infecting his mind while leaving his cheeks numb.
'What am I thinking? I'm going crazy, damn it...'
Would he really be crazy after a day in the Dream Realm?
"You're just overthinking it."
He spared his mother - who stood on the edge between the night's embrace and the fire's warmth - a sorrowful glance before focusing on the cinders at his feet. She wandered off somewhere shortly after, yet Michael didn't care.
It had been a while since he kindled the flame, around thirty minutes or so. Rest was sorely needed, but he knew he had to leave soon. Who knew of what dangers prowled beyond the ashen veil of flowers? In fact, the ashen flowers were a threat themselves, an insidious one at that. The longer Michael rested, the harder it would be to move against their calming fragrance.
He couldn't stay still for long, but... who knew when he would find another place to rest, one with warm flames, no less?
'Well... I do have the torch. I'll be alright.'
Michael was curious if more campfires like this existed throughout the meadows? Would they all have the broken sword coiled through it?
He pondered for a second before instantly grimacing and yelping. Michael leaned forward, breathing heavily as he clenched his forehead. He was having a headache, one on a level he never felt before. His whole body was shaking and tense from the pulsing pain. Of course, all of it was hidden by the mantle.
It was only after a couple of extremely slow seconds did the painful throbbing and ringing stop.
Michael returned to his original position, resting his head on his raised knee in fatigue.
'...'
He could barely even formulate a thought. It seemed Michael strained his exhausted mind too much, probably made worse from his mysterious, ethereal exhaustion.
Was this what it felt like when he was low on essence? He heard that Awakened would feel tired and drained, but he also heard that essence regenerated over time. He couldn't feel anything change for the better.
'Maybe it takes a long time? What a bother.'
Michael glanced up without moving his sore neck, looking at the embers merging with the stars.
'What else can I think about? Resting is so boring...'
Though it sounded like he was complaining, he was appreciating this boredom more than ever. Michael just wished he had someone to talk to, the dead didn't make the greatest company, after all.
Well... the phantom was trying to talk to him, but a cruel wraith wearing the rotting corpse of his dead mother wasn't much better.
'How long has it been since... then?'
Michael mournfully frowned as his thoughts traced back his memories, his emerald eyes glinting against the radiance with sorrow.
He turned sixteen in the middle of Spring and contracted the Nightmare Spell at the beginning of Autumn, making him around sixteen and a half when he entered his First Nightmare. Michael then spent around six months in Oneiro - the City of Day - which meant he found himself in that blizzard at the end of Winter. He was nearly seventeen, a month or so away to be exact.
'Seventeen? And my back is already hurting?'
Michael let out a subdued, bitter chuckle before returning to his passive expression illuminated by the flames. Thinking about how quick recent times had been, it really got him thinking about what was to come.
Of course, his immediate future was already planned out. Michael had to find a way out this abyssal darkness, discover a gateway, Awaken, return to the Waking World, and work towards his dream of reuniting his family. Finding his brother would probably be easy, Awakened were given special privileges, after all. He could just request a name search and look into the files. Even if he couldn't, he didn't mind working for the government just to get the rights to.
His father would be a bit more tricky, since why would a renowned Saint of Valor meet with a random Awakened, one claiming to be his son of all things? Michael could try making a name for himself as an Awakened to attract his attention and possibly get an audience, but that would mean he had to slay Nightmare Creatures. Was it worth risking his life for his father's attention?
Michael couldn't really say.
After his father, he had to reunite with his wife. She was someone from a Nightmare, the recreation of an ancient human who died long ago. But who says he couldn't find her again in another Nightmare? Who says he couldn't find a way to bridge the gap between nightmare and reality, and bring her back?
'If the Gods say otherwise, what's stopping me from defying them?'
The only way to defy a God was to become one themselves, but... how could Michael become a God? The simple answer would be to conquer all the Nightmares, but that wasn't a simple thing to do. In fact, that was perhaps the most outlandishly insane statement anyone could ever mutter. No one had even conquered the Fourth Nightmare yet, wanting to conquer all of them was simply beyond lunacy.
'Maybe I am a little crazy?'
If the Gods could bend reality to their will, then Michael had to follow suit. Maybe that was how the Gods became Gods in the first place? If he was going to conquer the Nightmare Spell, what better conviction was there besides it simply being his will?
'I guess that answers the question with my father...'
But what else did his future hold?
Would he have children? He wanted to.
Would he have his own Clan? That would be nice.
Would he be able to enjoy his wife's pancakes and waffles again?
'I hope so.'
Michael leaned back and wistfully stared above as if he was dreaming, ignoring his repulsive stench.
'Spell... a bath would be nice right about now.'
His skin was stained in dried blood, especially his face. It left quite a horrid stench.
Even though dreaming was nice and all, especially about a bath, he needed to ponder his immediate future as well. Michael needed food and water, already suffering from a dry mouth and a twisting belly.
Consuming the beasts before did quench his hunger, but he wasn't looking forward to feasting on them in such a way all the time. He must figure out a way to cook and store them. He doubted there wouldn't be water, since all these flowers needed something to thrive off of. But if these flowers could survive without sunlight, did they really need water?
'Hmm...'
Michael could make do with simply consuming beasts for now, no matter how detestable the thought was. For water, he would just have to push through until he found something, perhaps a water Memory.
'What else do I need to address?'
He sat there, idly looking at the stars as he slowly gathered his thoughts still unsteady from the headache.
Michael vaguely understood the purpose of every ethereal rune he could summon. He has yet to really translate them without the Spell's help, so perhaps soon he could derive alternative meaning that could provide valuable insight.
He also had a solid grasp on what his arsenal was comprised of and was already brainstorming possible techniques when used individually or in conjunction. It was only four Memories, but it was better than nothing.
The only thing he hadn't addressed was his...
'...Soul Sea.'
A still, endless sea of blood shrouded with chalky, thick clouds barely letting soft light through. It looked as if a blizzard was about to turn the unmoving crimson into a savage ocean, threatening to drown him under towering waves of ichor.
High above the sky - partly concealed by the snowy canopy - was a spherical convergence of blood, a crimson orb rhythmically pulsing like a heartbeat. Michael could still vividly remember the cacophony of distant thumps like someone was ruthlessly pounding an anvil with a hammer. Below it were several thin lines connecting it to the ocean, eerily similar to veins.
Their was also many other details he recalled. The cool breeze that hit his face, carrying an iron scent that pierced his nostrils. How the clouds slowly drifted, faded shadows following like obedient companions in between the dim radiance.
He also recollected more, particularly the experiences he went through during his first and only visit. Corpses drenched in blood rose from the plane, disturbing the tranquil ambience. They pulled him beneath the surface, tearing his muscles and breaking his bones as he fell further into the darkness.
Michael already had an understanding, what else was there to it? Was there something waiting for him in there, something different from those corpses? Was it really worth fighting against... them?
Yet, he could also exit whenever he wanted. Maybe he would receive a reward?
'N-no... it's unnecessary, there's no point going in there.'
Michael's eyes widened when a head gently rested on his shoulders, bony arms embracing his cold armor as a gentle whisper entered his ears. His hairs stood on end.
"Are you scared?"
He slowly leaned forward, moving away from his mother as his head fell into his lap. Michael remained still for a few moments before looking at the campfire before him, following the embers floating in the air with his tired gaze. He rubbed his itchy eyes burning with exhaustion before using all his strength to open them.
Michael slowly got onto his feet as blood coalesced around his head and hands, quickly turning into blackened steel stained with crimson.
'Better to keep moving.'
He left the comforting embrace of the kindled flame and stepped onto the dirt, pushing his sore muscles and tired legs along the winding dirt path under the night sky. His tan cloak fluttered slightly in the negligible breeze, covering his helm in a hood. Sparks gathered in his hand in the shape of a curved, serrated dagger carved from bone with a golden gem embedded into it.
'She's waiting for me, I can't make her wait.'