Godric had been haunted for some time now. Even more so since he had returned to Oligarch. His rest felt like a battle and the day's labours felt a fardel unfair. The duties of the Chief of Justice, Arbiter, Duke, Councilman, and his own practices. Perhaps he spread himself too thin? Perhaps it was something else.
He cannot remember the dreams, only whispers, but they left him weak and listless. Darkness cast over him like some revenant from terrible parts unknown, bringing with memories old and unpleasant. His fingers wrap around the hilt of the Nightblade, its scorched surface gleams wickedly in the moonlight. He cannot explain the urge to practice so late at night - he had little desire to practice swordsmanship for so long but now he felt as if he was being coached from beyond the veil. Effortlessly the blade whistles through the crisp night air. In his fatigue Godric believes he can see the blade glowing and he feels his hands glow too. The whispers of warriors past begin to rise from the whispers of the wind and grass. He gains more and more fluency and soon he is battling imagined foes with immaculate ease. A battle rages in his mind as his practice grows more and more intense. How did he make it outside to this field? In Oligarch of all places? He feels the dread growing, gnawing at his stomach as he realizes he is being watched.
Godric awakens with a start. He has been dreaming again but cannot recall anything but the whispers of the wind and the faintest scent of dew covered grass. But he still feels the pit in his stomach.
