CHPT 295: Progress is the Ally of Those who are New...

After Claude spoke with Rollan and were given an answer to one of the man's many mysteries, tiredness seemed to get the best of him-- as if he said all that needed to be discussed and now sleep was the only option. Like telling Claude he was a Druid didn't cause a dozen more questions to bloom within his mind as if spring was upon them.

Rollan, a man of a million mysteries. Him and Romulus seemed to do that well. Claude pondered them both with Arne as sleep eventually welcomed him as well while he laid in the grass with his pack of wolven guardians. Maybe welcome wasn't the best word when used to describe him entering his slumber...

He never sought it out. Instead it pulled him in, like a deceptively deep black pool of nightmarish lucid memories and ideas. The last time he dreamt, it was different than the usual. He could move, he could turn away from the madness, only to find a small handful of frightened humans watching him as if he'd been with the Vampires and WereWolves that dined on the mess of fleeing humans. When he spoke-- pleaded to them, human words failed to fall on their ears.

A nightmare. That's what it looked like. But after the Full Moon it felt more like a premonition. One given by the beast in the sky that watched the nightmare unfold just as he did.

Fenrir.

He welcomed him when sleep found him this time again. Only not to train. Not to congratulate him backhandedly. Not even to rage at his shortcomings. Maybe he was busy elsewhere. It didn't matter much, since all he saw in his nightmare was the missing wolf god.

The nightmare was exceedingly horrible in an entirely new way. There was no blood and guts, no human limbs to fall from the sky like rainfall as Demons relished in the chaos. This nightmare was a constant replay of a new memory.

He stood, on all fours. It felt so real. He could feel the light ache in his shoulders, the burn in his quads, the wetness of his thick shadowy fur. The run was tiring, the hunt was tiring, their deaths were...liberating.

When the Night Runners refused to listen-- just like in his previous nightmare, he descended upon them as nothing more than what he was. A Lupine. No love lost, no pain or sorrow....only anger that they wouldn't listen.

They were wrong.

And as a result, he was right. He was right in saving a Monster. Something that would get him placed within the Halls of the Basilisk with some of the worst criminals. Something that would get him imprisoned anywhere in the world and even killed in the more barbaric places where the touch of Monsters was simply overwhelming.

Still, he did it. He did it anyway. He'd do it again, he'd kill the Night Runners again, he'd save the Banshee's again. And as if coming to him as some sort of reward, he'd become more like the beast from the marsh. He'd become more like Fenrir.

A sight that was hammered into his mind as he stared intensely into the marshy waters. The reflective black tortuous liquid surface of his nightmare.

One moment his reflection would be his own-- then his body would tense, his insides clenching and flexing in fear as if they knew what was coming before he could. As if it hadn't already happened a dozen times.

The pains would leave. Shaken off by the physical movement. When he was left to look at the dirty waters again, his reflection was tainted. Tainted by the mask of the one who'd chosen him....for seemingly more than physical connection. Something deeper. Something he got an inkling of as his face blended with the vengeful god of Wolves.....and heard it's voice hammering home within his lucid mind.

"yOu ARrRRE....LiKE MeE.....yOu AReEE LiKE mEEE....YOU. ARE. LIKE. ME!"

The message was hammered into his skull while the reflection flip flopped from one face to the other until he had trouble telling the difference. Until he lost focus of the cruel rendition of the Banshee's song playing. A song now sang from the lungs of a Monster. Within each held roaring note, he could hear the spill of blood, the rending of flesh, the cries of humans falling victim to the fangs of the wild.

It was chaos in its calmest form. And he sat within it for hours....

***

Sunday Morning, December 2nd, 2240.

The forest was silent. The lawn in front of Rollan's home even more so. All that remained were the steady sounds of inhales and deep animalistic exhales. The many beasts that slept among eachother had fallen in sync as ones do when they sleep together. All but one.

One who lay in the grass, sweating profusely despite the chilling winds and light snowfall that fell on the grass like sprinkled salt. His muscles tensed, stretching his radiant bronze skin like animal hide as the many pale scars gleamed under the early morning sky splashed with oranges of the rising sun and white starlight. Each slender calloused finger sunk into the earth, oily black claws outstretched and sinking to a place deeper that his plain fingers would never reach-- as if he was trying to dig and scratch the center of the earth until it's heat finally woke him.

Such a drastic measure wasn't necessary.

"GWAHHH!!!"

Claude burst from the sweat slicked grass like a corpse shocked back into life. He swiped at the air, moving around in the grass with the freedom he'd lost for an unknown amount of nightmarish hours. All the while growling unintelligibly to himself.

"I'm me...I'm not him. I'm me....we are not the same....I'm not him."

"[Rough night?]"

Claude steadied, shaking his head as he leaned over breathlessly on his hands and knees. "Why even ask?"

"[Conversation will take your mind off....well, wherever it is.]" Arne replied.

"Bullshit." He growled as the snowfall tickled his exposed back. The right side of his face still burned. As if every sense of Fenrir was chaos and destruction-- even in dreams...

His ears flicked in response to the sounds of canine growls and movement ahead of him, causing his head to raise to the sight of Frosty and five sixths of the Phantom Wolves playing a game of chase with a half chewed bone.

Movement shifted beside him, leaving him to turn away from the frolicking beasts and find Gil and Ashe sitting beside him waiting patiently.

"Morning.." He grumbled.

Ashe nodded, perfectly understanding of human language and mannerisms. He could practically see her as the young woman she didn't physically appear as. What a mystery.

Gil grumbled out a hissing growling reply that was almost a direct copy of his own.

"...Merde! That was quite the nightmare, no?"

Claude, Gil and Ashe practically jumped out of their skin at the sudden appearance of Rollan standing behind them.

".....nothing too far from the usual." He replied after collecting himself but making no move to get off his hands and knees.

"How the hell do you do that?" He asked.

"Do what, Monsieur?"

"Appear out of thin air? I don't get how I can't hear you move half the time when you don-- wait. Is that a Druid thing?" Claude asked as he looked up at the man. His dark green sweater hung off his emaciated build like clothing on a coat rack. The lines in his smooth face deepened as the beginnings of a smile appeared. When he spoke, the reek of old alcohol filled the air around him like a murky cloud.

"Druid things...hmm. I'd say you'd find out about many Druid things since your training begins now. You are far behind, and progress is your best friend. Let us begin, Monsieur."

Claude growled as he stood up.

"What was that?" Rollan asked, turning around partway through his walk into the forest in front of his home.

Claude rolled his shoulders, "We're taking the bird....and I want to know more about these Druids."