~ § ~ § ~ § ~
Alone in his hut, Morus’ body curled up admist the heap of his bedding pile. His clothes were soaked in sweat, and his brow furrowed every few moments with a tiny cringe of pain. He clung to himself tightly, managing a shiver as the candle next to him extinguished itself. All was silent around him, save an argument of some people on the street nearby about who owned the rights to a nearby begging spot.
~ § ~ § ~ § ~

“Your screams were called for, young Fennik.” Morus’ voice, as always, was a grave affectation. He took to one knee, partly because he was happy to finally be able to do it to someone, and partly to still his lightheadedness from knocking him off his feet. “I fear if we stayed there a moment longer, that phantom would have swallowed us both whole. And if I’m right, and I usually am, neither of us would have woken up in our beds.”

The dreamwalker’s breathing was haggard still, and all his limbs were more tired than he was used to in dreaming. The fall through the portal was even rougher than when he first found Fennik, and he was fearful of how much strength he had left to open any more. The chorus of voices that made up the dreaming was louder than ever, and had lost the rhythm of their song. It was chaotic, disordered, and deeply terrifying to the boy. It seemed to trouble his fae companion as well, who’s eerily wide twitched a bit in fear at the idea of his near death experience. He was young, or seemed it, though Morus had little interaction with the fae outside the countless stories he had and still read about them. The boy could recall something about some insectoid features, from some byzantine scroll, but seeing them up close was fascinating.

Or perhaps just a needed distraction.

Truth be told, the dream they found themselves in was good enough for that. Ground and sky were matched in the same carpet of moss and plantlife, stretching endlessly in all directions. Bright purple bugs fluttered about, providing the only light on offer, and even the dreamer, a curious orc girl, was something of a curiosity. She strolled over to the pair, her dress just brushing against the grass, and seemed to want to engage in her fevered conversation.

“You come to make Guntilde’s garden grow better?” Her vernacular was certainly orc, but there was a sweetness to it that Morus wasn’t familiar with. Perhaps judging her against her warrior ilk was an unkindness. Her sweetness aside, the dreamwalker had no interest in engaging right now. There were still troubles in the dreaming, and the feeling had not gone away. As cozy as their dream was now, it could be devoured all the same by whatever entity Fennik and he had encountered before. And even if that weren’t the case, any misstep in talking to her might cause her to wake up. It was safely kick them to another dream, but with the torrent travel seemed now, Morus was not exactly up for it.

“We will soon, but shouldn’t you water those seeds you planted?” The boy spoke slowly and carefully, and just as he had hoped, the girl turned around to find a watering can that wasn’t there moments before. Logic in dreams worked differently, and if eased into it by sensible suggestions, the dreamer could summon up anything they wanted. Though Morus had no real power outside of travel, he had learned this technique to cope.