- TRIGGER WARNING! BLOOD, GORE, SURGICAL SETTING! -

Dripping could be heard. It was repetitive and steady like someone didn't close a spigot all the way on either a sink or perhaps a barrel. It was nearly drowned out, however, by the sound of semi-stifled crying. Off and on, a rumble and clanking sounded through the darkened room. A single light was overhead the center, shining down on a grizzly scene.

On a large table, strapped down, was a young nightborne. He was bleeding profusely, though there were scattered bottles all around him. Some of them were full of red liquid, others opened and emptied. The young nightborne boy desperately tried to keep from crying too loudly, though the pain from all the cuts on his body was excruciating. Lacerations covered his torso in planned points. Some reached up to his neck, narrowly avoiding the important veins and arteries. Both old scars and new wounds lined the lower part of his face. It looked like someone was planning a grid-layout of roadwork on the poor boy, lined red with his blood and open wounds. Next to the operation table was a smaller one, littered with blood. What was usually on that table was missing due to all the blood and flesh he had left on it from his "lesson." His fear was palpable, all the shaking and shuddering would sometimes accidentally rub a wound and the boy would jolt, yanking on the bindings that wrapped around his wrists, ankles, thighs, biceps, stomach, and forehead.

His long hair was normally pulled up and away. It was normally a bright platinum white. It was stained red with his blood, however, and scattered around his shoulders and back. His own tears even stained his beautiful locks.

He finally silenced himself, though only through fear, as he heard a set of footstep approach. He couldn't see the door, nor even anyone approach, but they knew who it was.

A smooth, tenor voice greeted him, "Ah, still awake, I see?" A light clatter as a metal tray was set down on the small table next to him. His "teacher" leaned over his face for him to get a good look and memorize that horrible face.

The boy's own face was fair and a bit delicate. He was still young, though his form was quite androgynous typically. This man that loomed over him had a strong jaw, a slightly built form, and white, not-quite shoulder-length hair with a tint of color from the Nightwell. Even his face was full and flush from its energies. The boy, still developing, gave up on any hope of feeling mana-flushed long ago.

The "doctor" leaned away for a moment, and a distinct sound of something small and metal being picked up caused the boy's bent ears to twitch a bit. His heart rate increased by about five beats per second by their count and slowly increasing. The horrid nightborne leaned back over to face the boy and held a cleaned and sterilized scalpel. "Now, know that this will hurt. Just as it physically pains you, it pains me emotionally that you aren't taking the work we do here seriously." Another few beats and his heart rate was now at one hundred and nineteen beats per minute by the boy's count. "Perhaps a lesson in anatomy will help you relearn what to do-," he held the blade over the boy and pressed the point on the upper point of his sternum. "-And what not to do." Suddenly, the blade swiftly made its descent down. The boy stifled a cry of surprise. Not much in the way of pain, other than the gentle sting of sanitized steel. The feel of his flesh parting suddenly from his collarbone down to his navel? That was not expected so suddenly.

The blade lifted and placed its point on his right shoulder and slid towards the top of the first cut, then relocated to mirror the cut on the other side. The boy didn't need to ask what was happening. He could feel it.

He was vivisected, and about to be opened.

Like a present during the winter solstice.

As though the boy's thoughts were read, the "teacher" hummed a light, festive tune. He picked up one of the corners on the boy's chest that he just cut and lightly lifted. That caused some pain. A hiss was quickly disguised as needing to take an intake of breath. Just endure and you'll get out of this, was all he could think as his heart rate raised to one hundred and thirty-four beats per minute suddenly, as though his body was catching up with the fact that he's in serious danger.

"Now, now. I haven't separated your skin from your ribs, yet." The man chastised. As though to hammer the point home, he then started to pull the skin he had a hold of and slowly, methodically, began to cut it away from the connective tissue.

By the Nightwell, it hurt. The boy struggled to not arch their back or try to squirm away. He didn't want to ruin the cut, make it hard to heal from. He didn't want that scar to stay on him, a constant reminder. The "doctor" hummed and continued his work. Once he folded the skin away, he did the same for the other side. Just minutes passing by, however, they felt like eons. The boy wouldn't know for sure. They weren't an adult yet by at least a summer. He couldn't tell what an actual eon was and what was simply a construct of his damaged and broken mind.

Finally, after all that time, the layers of flesh peeled away, the abdominal muscles gently parted and folded over also, he began to feel light-headed. All that flesh being moved, he must have lost a fair amount of blood. His pale blue eyes seemed to flicker in the light as he blinked rapidly. He wasn't sure if he had to stay conscious, or at least try to, but he just didn't. He just wanted to sleep for a day, a week, a year.

Forever.

Energy suddenly flowed through him, he gasped for air and sputtered a bit. He accidentally struggled against his bindings and was reminded of them through pain. "Oh, please," the smooth voice reprimanded, "don't think you're getting out of this so easily." The boy's eyes focused and he saw a bottle over his chest, dripping red liquid into him.

The man tossed the bottle to the side, crashing and breaking in a container out of sight. As the bottle had sailed through the air, the "doctor" had already turned and picked up a much larger item.

The young elf's blood ran cold, suddenly. A bone saw. The dissection wasn't complete, this creature wasn't done opening him up. "Now, my dear boy," the thing started, "this will certainly hurt you. Quite a bit, actually." The bone saw was lowered onto his ribs, right next to his sternum, on the right side. The boy screwed his eyes closed as tight as he could, bracing for the pain. "Try not to thrash," was the request just a half-second before the dragging and scraping started.

The boy couldn't help but scream. Scrape, scrape, scrape, went the saw. He could feel the vibrations of the teeth of the blade grind into his first rib. He tried so hard not to move, but his limbs still thrashed and shuddered against the bindings. He tried so hard to not arch his back, to not move his torso in the slightest.

For a moment, he lost count of his heart rate. He couldn't think. The pain was overwhelming. All he could do was scream, thrash his limbs, and pray to whatever god could still be listening that wasn't the thing sawing into him.

Hours passed as the "surgeon" took his time to make sure all the cuts were proper. Each rib had been separated from his sternum. Blood leaked from the bones, there were a few cracks at the raw edges. The boy gasped and sputtered for air; his breaths ragged. He barely noticed that his sternum was gently lifted out of his chest. However, he did notice when the "doctor's" hands reached into his chest and grabbed his ribcage. One to each side then pulled.

The boy screamed, louder than he could have thought. He did nothing but thrash, body, mind, and soul. His bones cracked and snapped as the man effortlessly pulled the ribcage apart, opening his organs for examination.

The boy wasn't sure when the movement stopped, but the pain finally dulled after what felt like another eon. It was certainly still there, but it wasn't bad enough to send him into another blind panic. His breaths came in and out ragged and shallow, the ordeal taking a toll.

Suddenly, he felt his head being raised. That was new. However, it was still bound. Did part of the table lift, then…?

Now, he had a good view of his chest cavity. There was something that made his heart rate rise further than it had before, and the thing shuddered in response. And pace.

His heart. He could see his heart, nestled just slightly to the left side of his chest, next to a lung. His trachea, his windpipe to a degree, his stomach, all of that was also on display, but what caused everything to hyper-focus was that his heart was exposed.

"Don't you worry," said the older "elf." The boy wasn't sure if he was an elf, anymore, let alone another nightborne. All these things he's done and forced others to do. "I won't force you to watch me cut it out." He reached forward with a clean hand. He must have just changed gloves. The hand then lightly patted his heart. The boy couldn't help but whimper and stammer as his heart then beat furiously and unevenly in his chest at the intrusion to its cavity, its home. "Instead, I'm going to point to different parts of you, and you are going to tell me what they are. Then, what they do. Understood?"

The boy nodded, or attempted, not yet trusting their voice.

"I'm sorry, what was that? It looked like you twitched."

"Y-yes, s-s-sir."

"Good." The "surgeon" practically purred. "Now, no squirming, I don't want to slip-," he had started to say, though was interrupted as the blade, seemingly of its own accord, slipped from his hand, straight down at his cut open body-.

- End Trigger Warning -

She bolted upright, daring only to breathe in. She dared not breathe out lest she screams.

She looked around her. Sturdy hide walls surrounded her and warmth from a nearby hearth greeted her. She had her robes on still from the prior day. All her clothes, really. She needed a bath, but right now, she didn't trust herself to move.

Her heart hammered in her chest. She counted the beats and seconds as they passed. A quick, simple equation. One hundred and forty-six. One hundred and thirty-nine. One hundred and twenty-four. One hundred and seven.

Ninety.

Finally, once she reached the at-rest level for her heart, she took a deep breath which shuddered her whole body. That dream. Damn that dream. Why did she have to have that and similar dreams these past three years?

She slowly moved her hands around her head and patted herself from the top down. Hair? Still long and tied back from yesterday. A bit dirty and needs washing with the rest of herself and her clothes. Mask? A bit twisted, some wet spots from drool, but still on mostly properly. Bit of a shame her mask was white. If it were black, it might hide the drool stain…

Getting side-tracked. Capelet? Yup! Still hooked around her shoulders. Just checked off the robes. Gloves? One was about to fall off, but all her skin was still covered, so good there. Still had her pants on. A bit dirty, but no dirtier than last night before lights out. Even her boots were still on her feet.

She rotated around a bit on the spot. Still laying on her bedroll, but the fur blanket was kicked off sometime during the night. That made sense. No way she wasn't going to be free in the real world if her mind wouldn't give her that luxury in her dreams. She curled up a bit, sitting in a fetal position. Her hands curled to her chest, one of her thumbs tracing a Y pattern on her collar bone.

She could almost feel the cuts on her still, even if they were long scarred over.

She rested her head on her knees, a slight sob escaped her before she could catch it. She didn't want anyone in the Warband to know. To worry. They might try to send her home.

There wasn't home there anymore, nor anyone to greet her.

She really could only rely on The Ashbound…

She heard the shifting of bodies behind her. Her ears flicked and moved as she tried to guess if it was actually a few or just one. If they were just adjusting or -heaven forbid- just woke up.

"Little one?"

Shit.

She had inadvertently woken up the Warband's motherly shaman. The tauren woman yawned a long, soft sound. Her own tenor voice, sweet and pure like a river, reached out to her quietly, "Little one? Do you need aid?" The nightborne shook her head, though dared not speak up. She heard a slight rumbling huff, one that cattle would make sometimes -or so she heard. Usually, she heard tauren making that noise when annoyed.

Like now.

She heard shifting as the tauren probably stood up, only to be confirmed by soft, slightly echoing hoof steps. They stopped behind the elven woman, before scooping her up. A soft squeak escaped the nightborne before she could get a hold of her own self, then wrapped her arms around the tauren's neck. The shaman then walked the young elf outside the large tent most of the Warband were sleeping in. The tauren hugged the elf to her. Her fur was soft and warm, her wrinkled civilian wear warm from being under the blankets. Just so cozy. Suddenly, they stopped moving and the nightborne finally looked up and saw where they were. They were on the cliff, just above the tent that was given to the Warband by the tauren of Thunder Totem. Not close to the edge, but near enough to just know it's there simply due to picking out the other, nearby tents. The shaman woman then sat down slowly, still holding the nightborne in her arms close to her.

"Tunrah…" The nightborne would have a hard time finding her voice. Tonight, it just wasn't her night.

"It seems Ysera is out, tonight." Startled from her thoughts, she looked at the tauren, confused. Tunrah nodded and looked up towards the sky.

Following her gaze, the youngling saw just beneath the largest moon, Elune, what looked like a constellation of a fully-grown dragon. She's heard the tale from Tunrah and one or two of the Ashbound that the constellation was really the dragon aspect, Ysera. How that came to pass, a few weren't really wanting to tell that story.

Probably for the best.

Tunrah yawned again, followed by a gentler snort. Or was it just a light huff? The nightborne shook the thoughts from her head. "It vas just a dream, Tunrah. I'm alright."

The shaman certainly huffed this time. Her soft brown eyes homed in on the youngling's bright, pale blue. "Rulfux," Tunrah said sternly, "you are not 'alright.' You can't fight what ails you on your own."

The elf, Rulfux looked down and away in shame. She let go of the tauren's neck and started to stand. She was surprised when Tunrah didn't give any resistance. She walked a couple of paces away from the shaman and folded her arms. "I don't vant to burden anyvun. Zhis is my pain…"

"You don't have to hold this burden alone," was the response. A sigh escaped her, Rulfux could feel her frustration. "I can't make you talk to me… but I can be there for you when you are ready."

Rulfux gripped her arms tightly at that. She knew she had to tell someone about her past, what she was forced to do, what she was forced to endure. The dream -no, memory- resurfaced, fresh on her mind. Her morbid thoughts were interrupted as she heard a patting sound. Turning, she noticed that Tunrah was patting the ground next to her, a wry smile on her face. Rulfux sighed, a smirk playing on her own. Slowly, she plodded over and flopped down next to the tauren. Tunrah wrapped her arm protectively around the young elf, as though to protect her from her own thoughts.

Though Rulfux missed her own mother, Tunrah was doing a damn good job at filling that role.