Rest Well, Little Dove: Christol

Christol snapped awake, his breathing ragged, sweat rolling down his pale skin, drenching the bed sheets in his sweat. Christol looked around his room quickly, eyes darting to and fro inside the room. Brightly lit, there seemed nothing out of the ordinary. 

The lonely dresser, with nothing else on that side of the room, stood tall and closed, the carvings in the wood of flowers and tree blossoms glimmering in the flickering lamplight. 

The large, silken bed he lie on, with its large bedspread and soft blankets. 

The closed window, with the wooden shutters seemingly calling to him as if to open them and look outside. 

The tall, ornate door shut and locked, to which Christol gave up trying to open the door a long time ago. 

The desk with an ever growing stack of books, none of which Christol had read, all magical textbooks that Haldore wanted him to study and learn from. 

I can't.

An end table next to the bed where his journal rest, his only solace in this seemingly never-ending nightmare. 

And of course, the ugly carpet on the cold, stone ground, its image bearing Haldore's face, though there was no resemblance whatsoever. Haldore had told Christol that the person who wove the carpet had perished some five hundred years ago. 

Seeing nothing outside the ordinary, he attempted to calm himself back down. But his breathing simply became more ragged, and he found himself trying to find his thoughts, but he couldn't.

Why? WHY? WHY?! 

Christol swung his legs off the bed and stood, the world wobbling around him for a moment before he regained his balance. He walked over to the lonely dresser and opened it, hoping to put on his tunic and coat, only to realize that he was already wearing them, and he shut the dresser.

"The Great Hall…" 

Christol mumbled, his left eye twitching. He began to run around the room, flinging open drawers and emptying boxes, in hopes of finding it.

The ball. Where's the ball? I had it a few days ago… where has it gone?

Christol's memories were foggy, but he clearly remembered that for the past week, Haldore had been 'training' Christol, but to him, it felt more like torture, as his entire body ached, and he wanted to rip off his own limbs to stave off the pain.

Was it a week? Has it been a week? I don't know anymore. The hours are all blending into one. I can't focus, I can't think, I can't even breathe. Oh gods, what's happening to me?

Christol turned over a box and heard the sound of something glass hitting the floor, and bounced. Christol flung the box to his side and glanced around to find the source of the noise, but he didn't find anything. 

Am I… going… insane? I could've sworn I heard something. Something glass. Like the ball. I need it. I need to leave. Leave this place. Help. Someone.

"Ball… crystal… Artuck… help."

Christol began mumbling those words over and over again as he scoured the room trying to find the lost ball.

A sudden noise from out his window caught his attention and Christol dashed to the window, and flung open the shutters and looked to where the noise came from.

The nighttime sky was dark, and the moon was not showing its light. Darkness was in every corner, as far as Christol could see. The water appeared to be a vast void, the forest beyond a black landscape.

Stuff of nightmares.

But one thing had caught Christol's eyes. Out in the distance, on the horizon, there appeared to be light. Flickering light. As Christol squinted to see what was there, he saw nothing but the rising smoke.

Are they burning down Scolt all the way this time? Are my friends there? Is Flim okay? Where are they? Do they think I am dead? Why can't I think? Why can I not LEAVE?

Christol went back into his room and leaving the shutters open, began to pace.

Think, think, think. WHY CAN'T I THINK?!

Christol continued to pace around his room, his thoughts growing frantic and sporadic, as he attempted to put a plan together.

Eventually, after pacing the room for what felt like forever, Christol had an idea. At this point his legs hurt like none other, and he was desperate to sit down. He walked over to the end table, grabbed his journal and sat at the desk, pushing all the magic books to the floor. He grabbed an inkwell and pen and began to write, overcome by a moment of clarity.

Help me. My name is Christol and I am an elf from Halden. I am trapped in Hardrik, in the Easternmost tower overlooking the Sea and Pointe's Forest just beyond Maldrik. From what I've gathered, I am in the highest room in this tower, and I am slowly losing my mind! I have been tortured by Haldore for some time now, so much so that I don't know exactly how long it has been. 

If you receive this message, please find an elven man named Artuck and inform him of this. He should be accompanied by the rare dragonborn species, whose name is Mitrax. Additionally, he should be assisted by a small goblin who calls himself Cruu, and my brother, another elf, and his name is Flim. 

If you cannot assist me, then please share this message with someone who can! Please help me!

Christol set down the pen and rummaged through the desk before pulling out an empty glass bottle. It had once contained milk, and the label was still on the bottle. Clean and dry now, Christol rolled the parchment and stuffed it inside the bottle. He then put the bottle's cork on it and stood.

This is a terrible idea. But I have to try. I need to get out of here.

He walked to the still open window, and looked down at the bottle in his hand, the milk label staring back at him.

Well, here goes nothing.

Christol threw the bottle with all his might, and he watched as it soared out into the darkness before falling into the waters below. He watched as it landed in the water, and as it was pulled out into the darkness of the sea.

"Please," Christol mumbled as he climbed back into the bed, and before his thoughts could wander any further than they already had, he fell asleep.