[RPG] [BT][RoF] Prophecies in the Night

[Dominic]

The air was warm and humid, the world was plunged in darkness. Nicolas ran
and ran, his heart was beating hard and irregularly in his chest, painfully,
ready to give out. He was running in an open field, the full moon
illuminating his path, running away. The moist air was suffocating him, fog
was quickly creeping up on him, and the rocky terrain was quick to wear down
his feet. He was running, and he was alone, running away. He couldn't run
anymore, he collapse on the ground, struggling to regain his breath.

The man was there, he could sense it. Nicolas pushed himself on his back to
face him, to raise his eyes him. There he was, standing tall, not seeming to
be the least tired. He had strong dark armour donned, a helmet hid his face,
revealing only the bright, red, eyes. The man unsheathed a sword, a
claymore, and pointed it to Nicolas' exposed throat. A claymore, a familiar
weapon, though he couldn't quite remember from where he knew this blade.

"Who...?", Nicolas asked, gasping for air. "Who... are you!?" The man did
not move. "Who... Who are you!?!" he managed to shout. "Chénier...", the man
whispered in an unnatural tone, as he pulled his sword backwards, and
violently plunged it in the group, next to Nicolas. He couldn't understand,
the man just stood and stared at him. He breathed heavily, looking at the
claymore. The claymore... Royal Cleaver, he recognized it now, he had seen
it in some documents. He looked at the dark knight, who seemed him to want
to take it. He stretched out his hand to pick up the sword, but the blade
was in too deep. He stretched his other arm to pull it out with both hands,
and he was thrusted backwards. The man's cold, unearthly hands were on his
neck, squeezing the life out of him. He tried to breath, he couldn't, the
man was too strong, and the hands... not... human. Skeletish hands, with
hardly any flesh on them, this was no living knight...

---

Nicolas woke up, sweaty. He could feel his heart beat, the stench of his
sweat had filled the tent, he felt as if he had swam from Fwuvoghor to
Enweilieos, or wrestled with a daimon. He rose up to cool off, slow his
breathing and pulse.

He was lost... He couldn't remember the last time he had a nightmare, when
he was a child, he thought. Even when evading Cathay's and Nighthelm's
authorities, sleeping in remote caves, passing hours to cover his tracks...
Nor in his many and long stays in foreign dungeons, isolated, left to
himself in enemy lands.

His neck was sore, in pain. He rubbed his hands around it, bringing him a
sharp pain as he cringed. "I must have strangled myself in my sleep...", he
thought. He walked outside for a moment, for some fresh air, and looked out
at the other tents. "Finally", he told himself, "we find their army! I
should have known they were in the West, instead of looking in the ghostly,
empty West... Things go well here, things are going well. Soon, we will show
our worth again.

Nicolas grinned, calmed, and returned to bed.
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