New lands. Unsettling dreams.

But Radovan is no stranger to dreams; and in spite of the cold dread that clawed at his throat the moment he awoke from it, it's at least different from the same nightmare he's entertained for years. This raw, sinking fear is a welcoming reprieve from all the guilt, from all the ghosts that are familiar.

It is the unyielding darkness that causes him more alarm.

Clouds smother every corner of the sky, shrouding the carnelian wisterias in a veil of gray and black. The darkness that seeps into the land screams of night and yet, by the heavy throbbing in his head and the itching behind his ears, he's certain it's close to midday. It is by no means as jarring a revelation as it is going to sleep in one world and waking up in another, but it echoes a fleeting sentiment spoken in Stardust's voice:

Maybe we are dead.

Or, simply, they're not dead yet. But they will be.

A small shudder creeps down his spine. He shoves the thought away, continuing his jaunt through the woodlands as if he's on some sort of quest. There is urgency in his pace where there shouldn't be; his paws are hurried and clumsy, tripping over roots and snapping twigs. Sending bird and doe alike into flight.

For now, something is pulling him north. Instinct, intuition, whatever he wants to call it—it compels him toward the tunnel, whose yawning, gaping maw waits in bating silence.