That One Time I Went on a Quest

Kaishen's Chosen

'Kastor...KASTOR!'

What? Who's that calling my name? Can't she tell I'm having a nap? It is such a versatile skill, napping; "close thine eyes and all that befalls thee are dreams" – that's the only line I remember from the Maker's scriptures. It's just so...applicable: to lazy mornings, to being yelled at...and to surviving the apocalypse.

It's no permanent solution though. Can't really explain why it isn't. With every second that passes lying here unconscious becomes a little too...easy. Hear the urgency in her voice, screaming your name? And here I am, taking it easy.

Wake up now.

A world of grey death, of swirling cinders in a storm of ash. Before me the silhouette of Oon'Shang is that of an immovable statue encased in black tar. The slab of rock on her back is nowhere to be seen, but her stance is still frozen as if carrying a great weight.

She's not moving. Not moving at all.

Pieces of skin are peeling from her body all cracked and edged with ember. Her globular eyes seem melded into their sockets. As I watch, her left arm detaches itself and shatters into charcoal bits upon hitting the ground.

Alright, enough of this. Time to wake up Kastor.

There's a jagged hole in her chest, just below the neck. The sky is visible through it.

Wake up. Come on wake up. Enough.

The ash...can't...breathe...

Kathanhiel's voice cuts across the dreadful silence. 'Kastor! Call out to me! Respond!'

Why does she sound so panicked? She would never sound panicked. Get your facts right, stupid dream.

'KASTOR! STOP KIDDING AROUND!'

Her voice is tearing; screaming does that to you. First time hearing her scream liking this; not even with Rutherford did she sound so desperate, losing her mind.

Alright, stubborn lips, open now and respond even though that's impossible since this is a dream and in dreams you never get to talk or do –

'I'm here!'

The loudest yell I could manage is the wheeze of an old man on his deathbed. Head so heavy. Eyes feel like they're about to shrivel up and roll out of their sockets.

A minute or a century later, muffled footsteps seep through the mud and into my ears: slow-quick-slow-quick, the rhythm of a cripple. With it comes a wave of dull heat, like that of a dying furnace choking on ashen logs.

'Oon'Shang...' I hear her exclaim. A dull thud; she falls over.

I tell myself to move; myself doesn't listen. Crawl then, stupid, put your hand on that scab of rock and drag – no not that arm not that one, the other one – good, now crawl. By some miracle there is strength still in a few remote body parts. Has it always been there, or did it come rushing back because she isn't getting back up?

Crawling, crawling. The ash tastes like a sweat-soaked pillow packed with coaldust. The solidified earth cuts open hands, knees, and every piece of skin in between; the wounds feel hot, smoky even, as if slit by a hot knife.

Nope, trying to stand up isn't a good idea. These legs don't seem to have bones in them.

There she is, leaning against a jutted rock with the look of soul-devouring exhaustion. Her skin is steamed red but at least it's no longer glowing. Somehow her shirt, made out of that slippery fabric, is still intact, along with her crystalline greaves that seem to have been dipped inside a volcano.