Skill:

---

The softness of his breath broke the silence of his sleep. Ominous quietude lingered, and all he could hear was the rattled inhale of wind as it rushed into his nostrils. Strange. Something had pulled him from his slumber — something urgent. But the air that greeted him smelled suddenly unfamiliar. The warm, herbal scent of his siblings had all but disappeared.

Torben would lift his head, realizing that he was no longer in a den ... but instead in a hazy field. Thick, rolling fog obscured his vision, making it nearly impossible for him to see much beyond his own nose. It appeared as nothing more than a strange labyrinth, abnormalities clouding every sense and leaving him feeling ...

... lost.

The large male would pull himself upward, cinnamon eyes peering toward an impossibly black sky. A pitter patter of panic paddled around in the base of his chest, rising to a tightness in his throat as he dared to croak: Sage? Silence persisted, heavy and haunting. Alti? His words were absorbed by the dense fog.

A dream.
It had to be a dream, right?

The bear would push forward a few steps, swishing through the tall grass and feeling the chill of the midnight dew against his skin. Darkness swallowed him, leaving him impossibly lost in what he could only presume was an eerie dreamscape.

---

Skill:

---

The silence continued to absorb him.

Even as he walked.

His pawsteps met hollowness.

Panic began to rise, burning in the pit of his chest and searing his throat as he walked aimlessly through the forgotten field. His pawsteps were heavy, and on purpose. He wanted to scour this landscape and forget it ever existed, daring to pop the ruse. Yes, he wanted to make his presence known — and on purpose.

Maybe it would wake him up.

But instead of being awoken, all he heard was a voice. "Who's there?" It called to him with ethereal softness, luring him closer to an eternal end. An end. Oh gods, was this it? Was this the end? Oh, but that voice was so sweet. So sickly, sickly sweet. And somehow, with that sweet voice came the scent of lavender and honey. And he nearly choked on the air.

For a dream, this sure smelt real.

Sage? He called her name, softly questioning it into the air.

It's ... he paused a moment, hesitating. It felt like falling into the deep. And yet ... ... it's me. Torben. He would take a few wavering steps forward, pressing into the dreamscape further as if to challenge it. And then he softened, his body hiccuping against the decrescendo. And he faltered. A frown found his lips as his cinnamon gaze turned toward the earth. You're not Sage ... are you?

The mist would engulf him.

---

Rune Discovery : 「 Partial failure; bonus unlocked for increased chance of success in the next thread these characters post 」 

---

The fog was oppressive, even stifling. What was more interesting was that upon entering this area, you begin to feel almost... sour. Perhaps it was simply an odd mood swing, but as you venture further into the woodlands, your disposition seems to take an even sharper decline as a displaced sense of ire lingers about your mind like the fog outside of it.

You are still able to distance yourself from the feeling, gradually recognizing it to be happening without any input from yourself or your surroundings, and as you force yourself to engage in this utterly asinine (wait, why are you calling it asinine?) exchange of words with a stranger, a clipped voice breaks through the barrier of your mind.

Yia ere wakind kina.

It sounds... disappointed. What business did this disembodied fellow have sounding so cross? Your temper rises.

You are wasting time.

Ah, there it was. The words morphed into something you could understand, and now you're even more agitated because of it.

Ir... kirhakal yia cialk wirk togedrir. Fira. Fira, mabe drial wa... mabe drial wa.

Its tone is softer now.

Or... perhaps you could work together. Yes. Yes, maybe this way... maybe this way.

The voice fades, extricating itself from the confines of your now-aching head as you realize the sheer volume of space it had occupied.

Exchange your pleasantries, but do not give up the hunt.

Skill:

---

Everything became overwhelming as his sensory deprivation began to play at his emotions. He felt on edge, heightened in his anxiety and confusion as his cinnamon gaze attempted to pierce through the overwhelming darkness. There was a voice — no, voices. They slithered toward him from the shadows, and he felt helpless and agitated as he attempted to find the source of the sounds.

But it was all mist and shadow.

“Not sage,” said one, and another voice seemed to reply to it with foreign prattle. “You are wasting time.” The two spoke in tandem, lighting up the silence with the static of cacophony.

Alright, it isn’t funny, he hummed, taking a few steps backward and feeling the mist slither up the back of his legs. The fur along his hackles rose, his ears pressing forward as his tail lashed behind him, as if he had any chance of slicing through the poor visibility.

“Torben.”

His skin was crawling, his nostrils choking on the mist.

When was he going to wake up?

And then, from the shadows, he saw her. Before long, she was basically on top of him, the heat of her skin radiating close to his chest. For a creature of nightmares, she certainly … was beautiful. He could feel the pounding of his heart (perhaps she could, too, with how close she was), his eyes widening as he simply stared at her. Her, this strange, otherworldly being that his unconscious mind had conjured. This Maiden of the Mist. And she wanted to help him.

Sure she did. (As if he didn’t know how horror worked.)

Listen, I’ve realized it’s a dream, he announced loudly, as if speaking it beyond her and into the background. Perhaps if he acknowledged it out loud, he would wake back up. I’ve realized I’m quite creative, and I’d like to … wake up. And he waited, hearing his voice for a moment before it was eaten by the silence.

He didn’t wake up.

Alright, he continued, hushing his voice as he turned his gaze toward the Beautiful Nightmare. Hit me or something, would you? That may jolt me awake. Was he frantic? Was he sounding desperate? Perhaps he was — he wanted out of this stubborn, stupid dream.

---

Skill:

---

She hovered near to him, perhaps near enough to feel the rugged thrum of his heart in his chest. If it hadn't been clear enough that he was on the verge of losing it, the soft, half-frantic puffing of his breath would have clued her in more definitively.

His eyes turned, meeting her soft, emerald gaze.

"I thought that, too, at one time," she would start, and he would welcome the way her voice broke the heft of the silence. But he only continued to stare, slowly and meticulously processing whatever it was that was happening to him. He had so many questions. "Ye are awake," she'd continue, reminding him that he was present here. Wherever here was. What? It crawled from his lips, a useless word that tried to summarize the amassing of feelings that welled within him.

If this was a dream, then where were the rest of them?

Or was he ... were they ... ?

A soft nose met his shoulder. A warmth spread from the point of contact, radiating along the side of his neck as he swallowed and slowed his breathing. Behind his gaze, however, there was still the thrum of anxiety, a radiating insecurity as he tried to rapidly process everything that was happening. Her. This mist. That voice. Mythris. This doesn't make any sense, she conceded quietly, deflating as his ears pulled flat against his head.

I'm sorry, but, who are you, exactly? He continued, holding her gaze for a moment before shifting his eyes toward the dark, misted field around them. He would squint into the Stygian abyss ... and he knew there was another one, for that voice certainly did not belong to the one who stood before him. I heard it ... he assured her, still gazing toward the empty expanse that held them. It felt like being trapped in a bubble.

Like there was no one else but them.

And that voice.

That wasn't your friend, then, I take it? Or some ... dream ... beast? His head would swivel, eyes catching hers again. A weak smile would pull at his lips, but quickly deflate back into a wary frown.

---

Skill:

---

Feel free to end here if you'd like!

---

---

The shock of his realization had rattled him, startling him beyond what was comprehensible. And for a while, that shock was a numbing mask over the other emotions that welled within his chest. It had effectively created a wall, guarding Torben from the inevitable thing that would come next:

The starkness of his loss.
His safety. His family. Everything.

He remembered when Foxglove had gone missing and he recalled the emotional toll it had taken on those left behind. No one had even been able to say goodbye — it had been a hurt so cavernous. So painful. It had left a hole in all of their hearts. And now ... now he was doing the same thing to them. And it hurt even more than when he had felt loss himself, for he knew how his family would suffer without him there.

Outwardly, Torben would slowly deflate.

The pink stranger — Fable of Avon — would continue to speak, but Torben's cinnamon eyes were glassy, staring dissonantly into the distance. "But ye shouldn't be out here alone." Alone. The word resonated, stronger than Fable would realize. Right, he added, his voice a soft huff of useless air. Slowly, his gaze would find the warmth of those emeralds, but he could not find it within himself to smile. He could not find any other words.

But she was right about one thing.

He didn't want to be alone.

Alright, he'd concede to her offer, trying to stiffen his very visible frown. Lead the way, he'd add, flicking his tail lowly behind him. He knew absolutely nothing about this place, and at least Fable seemed to have her wits about her. She seemed to at least understand some of the nonsense of whatever the fuck was going on.

So for now, he would bind to her, hoping he could catch his own bearings and find a way to get home.

---