Making deals with magic creatures was not something the boy was wholly comfortable with. In his not too distant past, Morus remembered the flame and fury found in such a contract with a far more insidious force than Fenn. Still, he was relieved that the fae had listened to reason finally, and wore the flower in his hair with only a little apprehension. He was reminded of his sisters and other girls from his village who took to wearing blooming wreaths in a similar fashion come spring and autumn; the thought of it causing a slight tear to well up in his eye before he pushed that memory deep down to the depths where it belonged.

“This promise will do fine,” sighed the boy, adjusting the blossom in his hair as he did. He tucked its stem deeper into the greasy matting of his locks, securing it firmly in place. From the corner of his eye, he could see a slumped figure lumbering forward on uneasy legs. It was Guntilde, returning without a watering can and with a bewildered look in her eyes. Before Fennik or Morus could greet her however, the pair noticed the sorry state she was in.

Her gown was covered in splotches of red blood that resembled a mad artist’s most avant garde creation. Her right hand, or what was left of it, oozed bits of gore and bubbled in a sickly state, feeding what looked like a strange flower that perched atop it. It’s vines were the tendrils, sliding into the wound and forcing their way inside her forearm, where they pulsed and writhed to reach deeper into her body. The orc girl mouthed at words, but whether they were cries or pleas was uncertain from how soundless her whisper was.

Morus shot up then, his sickness a distant memory to what he witnessed now. He ran towards her and watched as her body fell lifeless to the ground. It kicked a little, rattling and struggling with some last semblance of strength, before she lay motionless at his feet. The boy reached out a hand towards her, but stopped as he saw a new life take hold. The flower was restless. It’s violent tendrils still coarsed within her before tearing new holes in her flesh to reach out and stick in the earth. The ground beneath was soaked in her blood.

Soon all the earth, the verdant fields and blooming bushes changed to revolting red color. Distant cries echoed all around the pair, and whatever light left shifted to a pale red. Vines sprung up from the ground and knitted themselves into the earth above, and soon more appeared from above to weave into the earth below. A ruby spider web of sorts seemed to surround them, growing thicker by the minute. The world around them had less in common with a garden, and was more like a fetid sinew healing a wound. The crying steadily grew louder, heralding the approach of something far more terrible.

The boy could feel it. The dream around them was collapsing, but not before something vile had made its way inside. It pulsed with the rhythmic beat of a drum, steady and slow like a war galley’s call to arms. Though he nary had the strength for another trip, the alternative was far too grim to stick around for. He ran back to the fae, snatching his hand before once again summoning a portal, this time beneath them. He felt the ground give way to them both, but not before the blood-red vines snatched at their bodies, narrowly missing them as they descended into the cacophony of the dreaming again.