Draken did not limp to the room that was soon becoming much too suffocating that night. He had to be dragged, carried, by a profusely bleeding Rapier and a pissed-off Rowan whose plans had been derailed and whose costume had been ripped and destroyed. It was demeaning, but more so, it was very, very painful. Never had he fought like he had tonight, and it showed, in a bad way.

"I'm... good. Leave..." he managed to croak out, waving them out of the medicine room that threatened to suffocate him. Not a good thing, since it was likely that he would be staying there for a long while. Looking slightly concerned, Rapier and Rowan deferred to his wishes, even though the red-eyed man made it clear he thought Draken should be patched up before entering sleep.

Draken hated others bandaging him, or touching him in any way - it had taken many years for Zachariah to gain the permission and trust of binding his scrapes and wounds. He suffered through the ministrations of his mother, and later Zachariah, but that was that. Of course, getting cured of deadly poison by a Potioneer while in a death sleep was a different matter. But for regular wounds sustained in a fight? He would bandage himself. He did reside in a medicine room for the time being, after all.

"At least the Potioneer respects my wishes - some of them," he mumbled to himself, washing away the blood and binding his many wounds using the supplies he found. It was hard work, as he was exhausted and drained, and aching. It took much longer than usual, and he crashed on the tiny cot in an already bad mood. Tossing and turning for a bit, Draken forced his body to sleep - he had to keep his strength up, especially if he was to do this every day. There was a strange pall coming over his body, as he faded into sleep, but Draken attributed it to long hours of rigorous fighting.

Later, he wished he had never gone to bed that night. Perhaps even let Rowan check him out. Yet mistakes are mistakes, and the past is in the past.

When his eyes flew open and he found himself in an icy forge surrounded by a ring of flames that gave off no heat, he knew that trouble had been brewing and was now making its appearance. His body was there, but was not his own - he knew the feel of his own body, and it was clear he was in a waking sleep, or in a mirage of some sorts. He had heard of tales, tales about mirages that came in sleep and destroyed the minds of those unlucky people, mirages that were conjured up by dark sorcerers of great power.

Why me? he screamed in his head. Why would I draw the attention of a sorcerer powerful enough for this? He was not special - whatever Rapier said. Growling, he got up to his feet and took out a knife from his boot - at least he was allowed a weapon, and a chance to fight. The colors and shapes of the surroundings was all wrong, all twisted, telling him once more that it was not reality he was seeing.

Clutching his knife, he readied himself for a fight. Whatever this was, whatever they wanted from him - he would not go down without a fight. And at least the pain from the fighting of the day was now absent.

Well, well, well... I have always wanted a Stellam Matutinam to be present in my... playroom. I would have settled with one who was not such a disappointment, but I shall take what I can get. A grating, gleeful voice filled the air, pure evil without a body.

Turning around, incensed, Draken tried to find out if the source of the voice was visible from this place or not. He saw nothing, which meant it came from somewhere else - or was not visible to his eyes. He did not know which was worse.

"Ah!" Chains suddenly wrapped around him, starting with his legs, and he yelled from the pain that came from the chains touching his flesh. The surroundings plunged in temperature, becoming so icy that he could see his breath, and making his torture worse. Struggling, biting his lip to stop more onslaught of screaming from the pain, Draken tried to free himself, his knife forgotten a ways in front of him.

I can see that my little poison trick worked, superbly! This, I must say, is the best night I've had in a long, long time! The voice was so evil, and so gleeful, clearly in on a joke Draken was unaware of.

Still struggling, Draken tried to think through the pain. Even if it was a dreamscape, his nature would not allow him to surrender, and it was told that what happened here reflected on one's body and mind in the waking world.

He knew that the man, the sorcerer, knew his lineage and blood, and supposedly knew of his 'failures.' That meant that he knew of things that he did not witness, or had been watching his family for a long time. With the vile creatures such as these, you never knew. The poison trick he mentioned - it must have been what had ushered him into this devilish waking sleep. Maybe something applied to his skin, or a poison he had drunk, or mayhap something he had touched during the fights of the day. Perhaps his strange feeling, right before nodding off, had been a forewarning of what would follow.

Yet there was nothing he could do to change that now, and he had to fight, and he had to think. How to defeat an all-powerful foe who was a dark sorcerer, and in whose created landscape they were in? Stall him, draw it out and wait it out, and see what information you could gather. Most of all - stay alive.

He stopped struggling, letting him think he was given up. It was alright, as he had already expanded much energy fighting the coiling, searing chains. His act of defeat would be believable. And so it was, since the first thing the disembodied voice did was crow over his victory and Draken's weakness.

I must say, I am not surprised - though I would have liked to see a fight, the voice added as an afterthought. It is clear that you are the weakling, the runt, the stain on your bloodline. I am doing everyone a favor, here. As for my plan... You shall be perfect - and there it broke off, as Draken managed to rid himself of the bindings.

It was very lucky that he had, among the remaining weapons on his body, a special type of knife that could cut through anything - especially magyc objects. He still had it here, and it still worked. Immediately he was back up on his feet, now circling the area within the circle of flames, which was reaching higher and higher and was closing in ever so slowly.

What is this? You wish to trick me? The shriek was so awful, it nearly brought Draken to his knees. What came after nearly made his legs give way. The sorcerer must have sent out a silent call, or invoked his will, for now flocks of avian creatures with metal as feathers were filling up the skies.

Crak!!!!!! Crak!!!!!! They croaked and shrieked their vengeance and began plunging down at him flock after flock after flock. The noise itself was enough to drive Draken to distraction - and their beaks and claws were deadly, poisonous. He fought valiantly, the best he could, but they kept on coming and never dying. If he struck one a fatal blow, they would blow up in black dust and reform in the air, and then ready itself to dive back down. As he kept standing, and kept fighting, Draken knew that he was infuriating the sorcerer, from the curses and accompanying shouts, and from the way the room kept on getting colder and colder.

Soon he was almost completely frozen, hardly able to move from the cold and the despair and chill of impending death. He was also very, very tired. There was something about this place that sucked the energy out of him, and the day had been long and draining. Time, meaningless though it was here, was taking its toll, and he knew he would soon go down.

"Never!" he snarled, pushing the remaining dregs of strength into his body. He slashed and pierced and hacked, and still the damned birds kept on coming. At one point he had to turn mid-strike, which was harder than it usually was, given his current condition, and saw the discarded knife on the ground. It had been spared from the encroaching flames so far. This gave him an idea. A crazy, stupid, idea brought about by pure desperation. But he had to do it. It was his last chance.

He slashed at another creature, and fell back, occasionally striking to defend himself. As he grabbed the knife from the ground, a searing pain went through his head. He went down, his body aching and protesting and his head on fire. He was blinded, and wracked with the worst pain he'd ever felt. Suddenly everything went quiet - apart from his little moans and harsh breathing. The creatures had been called back. They were no longer there. Perhaps a fresh method of torture was being prepared.

An image suddenly flashed into his mind. It was the simple image of a book, the book that Rapier had mentioned. The book that prophesied of him, opening to the page of the black pendant. A series of images flashed next, each worse than the last. Images of death, of threats, of his family dead and tortured, images of him dying in horrible, painful ways, images of Zachariah falling into the greedy waters.

How they pained him, how they made him want to scream out in agony! What physical pain could not do, these images managed to make him feel true pain, true torture. It would not stop, and one image was of a black landscape with silver, jagged letters that spelled out a warning for the ventures of Rowan and Rapier. The words, in the old, drakon tongue, sent chills down his spine. Some images even figured the two men - horrible depictions that would forever brand his mind and consciousness.

Finally, he got the courage to take the knife he was still clutching, and drag it over his arm, still seeing the images planted in his mind. Like he had thought, the pain, and wound, acted as a sort of wake-up for him. He had not been sure it would work, but it had been the only plan he could think of.

Breathing hard, he jolted up, eyes still swimming with the flames and the torture images. He was in a stuffy room that smelled of herbs and remedies, and it was so warm. There was a tiny, filthy cot underneath him, and the wounds he had sustained in the earlier fights were back with him. Yet he could still feel the more recent wounds, and had to blink, many, many times to convince himself he was back in the plane of reality.

Breathe in, breathe out, he told himself. He was shaking from fear and from exertion, and calmed himself by naming every single weapon present in the forges where he would work during the day. Breathe in, breathe out.

Once he could see properly again, and his heart had been calmed, Draken forced himself out of bed. He patched up the new wounds as best as he could - including the self-inflicted cut on his arm - and fell back down again on the cot. He was completely drained, mentally and physically. This was too much - just too much for him. How would he survive the days, the weeks, the months, the years? How?

Turning slightly, he was met with a burning pain that came from his side. "Ah... Ouch." Fumbling, he ripped off his shirt, and saw in the dim light something branded on his flesh. Just before returning here, after cutting himself, he had had a flash of pain, but had thought nothing much of it. The sorcerer must have branded him, for whatever mysterious reasons. They were three birds, much like the creatures he had fought against, except more regal, all grouped on his right side, glowing slightly bronze. The sight of that made dread pool into his gut, and he resolved to look up what those creatures were as soon as possible.

Another sight on his skin made him gasp - the markings on his arm, that signaled that he was destined for a prophecy and was now fulfilling it, had now expanded. Curling vines covered up his arm, and he felt like throwing up. This was bad news on top of bad news.

Refusing to think about any of it too much, he forced his body into a sitting position, fixed his eyes on a stain on the wall, and stayed there until the sun started to rise.

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