in the cold, desolate dark; he dreams.

unspooling sigils, spirals and fractures; the promising blossom of the Eternal Well—knowledge and wisdom, gifts never to be given to the common man. o, how his heart burns and aches with an inferno that rots him to the core before it escapes him. the warmth fleeting from his bones after pooling in his stomach, leaving a hanging singe against his chest. he dreams of metals and wine and a power beyond mortal comprehension. of men, mice and might.

of the bright, soul-scorching light from the kingdom Above.
of flesh torn asunder, ripped at the seams.

and he wakes. limbs outstretched as he gasps loudly into the quiet air, startling life that assumed him nothing but a corpse. his legs surge with life and his lungs command him to suck in as much air as possible, filling them for the first time. the world is a blur still, spinning in his vision as if he were still falling into the abyss—never to be seen again.

skin covered in snow, he rises from the side that was half-buried in it, hands tightly gripped into the earth. reality is vast and devoid of answers, franticness forces him to search the gaps in his mind in hopes they may fill themselves. it leaves him too alarmed by his revival, at first, to take notice to any strangers that may have their eyes on him.