The humming noise made him feel dizzy. Even when lying down, cheek to the ground, body motionless, he felt dizzy. The humming continued in his ears to the point where he worried he might have received damage to his ear canal. Where he was or how he got there seemed less important as he ran a silent, blind check on all the different parts of his body to search for aches and pains.

It reminded him of the mosquito noise young people often complained about hearing at low frequencies adults couldn't detect. The blessing Navarion's mother had taken him to receive at Teldrassil rendered him immune to sonic attacks in addition to status effect magic, but the hum in his ears bothered him nonetheless. For reasons he could not explain, he felt afraid to open his eyes until the hum disappeared.

Slowly, ever so slowly, it weakened and died out, leaving the usual sound of wind when one was outdoors. The air pressure felt high and the air itself was stuffy like he was in a room; the sensation of high air pressure but blowing wind disoriented him even more. Unnatural and eerie, the entire aura around him smelled of negativity.

Remembering his voodoo, Navarion continued to lie stomach down on the ground as he sent his feelers out. The spirits were not subservient to practitioners of voodoo - they weren't necromancers - but people like him, his father, his sister Anathil and even Sharimara to an extent were simply in tune with the unseen world around them. If one were in tune with that world, no sort of sacrifice or secret binding was necessary; all one had to do was listen, and the spirits would answer.

Yet nobody spoke to him. Like all children with the gift, the voices and presences had scared him at first; he was very, very lucky to have a shadow hunter as a father. Quite a few of his kind were mentally ill - Khujand himself had apparently been unstable prior to meeting Cecilia, his godmother Irien once told him - due to spending years thinking they were simply crazy before finally harnessing the power. No, Navarion had learned early on just what those phantoms were that reached out to him in the dark, and he no longer feared the occasionally unwelcome chatter that others could never seem to hear.

And when he heard nothing while lying there on the ground, that truly scared him. A shadow hunter was never alone because the spirits of both the dead and those who had not yet been born were everywhere. He had never been to a place where somehow, at some time, there had been would would be people one day. The silence of any beings living or dead, fel or fey, was deafening.

He opened his eyes. Darkness. Not blackness; black is a color. This was darkness; an absence of light or color. The difference was something he knew he'd be unable to describe to anybody else. Once he did find somebody else.

Forcing himself to his feet, he stumbled a little bit on the way up and tried to take in his surroundings. After having panicked for his sense of hearing, a similar panic set in for his eyesight: there was too much grey in his field of vision. The ground was a light grey, so at least not all was dark - everything above the ground was dark - but the ground was grey. There were no signs of silithid tracks on the ground which was a consolation, but only a minor one as he stumbled up a steep incline. The ground beneath his feet was covered in soft grass, but it felt like hard, packed soil as he shambled. Without any visual cues or his voodoo to direct him, he had no means of knowing where he was going. Very faintly, he could see corpses before him on the ground here and there, but they weren't fresh. By the time he'd walked a few yards away from any of them, they disappeared into the darkness once more and fell out of sight. A strange fog floated above the ground and he wondered if he'd been caught in the eye of a storm on the battlefield. It would explain his sense of disorientation and the eerie quiet and calm. It would also explain the fact that he didn't know how he'd gotten to where he was.

He stopped for a moment to try in vain to look around him. All the ground looked the same and he wouldn't have remembered which direction he'd come from had he not kept his feet facing in the same direction. Everything looked similar, though not exactly the same so he knew he hadn't wandered in circles. There should be trees, but none of them were close enough for him to see. Blinking a few times, Navarion tried to test his eyes and see if they'd been physically damaged but he found no strain or bleariness, and thus no explanation for the lack of color.

The bodies before him were neither of silithids nor of elves. They were humanoids, dead for a long time as if they'd all been knocked out and he was the only survivor. Their gear was cheap like mercenaries; he, Zhenya, Dmitri and Tammie had to be the only irregulars there wearing proper armor sets. He found no blood on the ground; they must have been dead for a long time. Could he really have been knocked unconscious on the battlefield for that long?

As he walked, trees came into view in the distance. He walked uphill, trying to reach higher ground; perhaps there would be more visibility. Tall, arching and reaching toward the sky, the trunks just barely became visible far away from him as he walked. Grey cut into the darkness as even the trunks appeared to have no color. More of them passed by and he noticed how slow he was moving, as if his boots were full of lead. Only slightly tired, he wondered why his body felt so sluggish.

Reliance on voodoo had never proven to be a handicap as the spirits spoke to him even when his mana burned out during particularly long, arduous campaigns. Tracking skills were essential to every traveler, though, and his mother Cecilia had taught him to the best of her ability given the short time he'd spent at home after coming of age and his short attention span at the time. He didn't need magic to know one of the people in the area was alive.

The fog swirled around, but not in the air. It was as if the gaseous formations flowed just inside the surface of every tangible object as he spun around, trying to find the only other person in the area. The grass, the corpses, their armor, the tree trunks; the fog flowed within everything, blanketing it but not moving outside of it into the air. There was no foul magic in the air at all; it made no sense.

As tall as a tree, the figure hoved in from just beyond the darkness. Fog flowed up and inside of what appeared to be a half-giant, bigger than his father and even his new friend Ragnar. Heavy, plodding footsteps delivered the hulking figure toward him, purposeful and unyielding. Panic rose up as Navarion flexed and pumped his lazy, jelly like forearm to let the sickle blade hidden in the contraption on top of his bracer and gauntlet flip out just in time.

A large, overhead swing brought down the tomahawk toward him, slicing through the air at a speed that would have decapitated a kodo. There was no way he'd be able to block the hit head on without the force of the blow snapping his arm in half, and he tried to scoop up the hilt of the tomahawk and redirect the swing to the side instead. The curve of his sickle blade proved true, and the primitive weapon made of flint, animal sinew and chiped stone narrowly missed his shoulder; his arm would most certainly have lost.

The brute continued to push forward, stinging his nostrils as the whiskey on its breath made him shiver. It felt like trying to shove against the Deeprun Tram, and even with the blow deflected the figure continued walking forward, not even making an effort as it shoved him back indefinitely. His nimble elven hands and feet helped him to avoid the swipe of an empty trollish hand, the three fingers bearing a strength disproportionate even for the man's already massive size; an ogre or dragonkin of similar height wouldn't have bore a grip as strong.

Using the push of the swiping hand to create some space between him and his anonymous attacker, Navarion tried to gain some momentum. The giant kept pushing forward, taking big, arcing swings of the tomahawk. Every strike moved at agonizingly slow paces, yet terrified him all the same as he realized it would only take one hit to end him; the force of the giant's swings were enough to cut through solid stone, much less the leather and chainmail Navarion wore.

Scrambling for his holster, he whipped the pistol out just as the tomahawk came down onto his sickle. The blade bent and snapped as did the spring loaded contraption caging it on his arm. His bracer shattered and he could feel the bone underneath fracture as he squeezed the trigger, miraculously blasting the musket ball into the giant's lungs. Like an enormous redwood, the attacker collapsed without crumpling and streams of the last breath tainted by whiskey filled the air like exhalation on a cold winter morning. Navarion fell too, ripping as much of the cage and springs off of his bracer without actually removing the armor piece as he could; he'd need the wound to remain still to avoid fracturing the bone in his forearm further.

Pain never hit him as hard as others due to his blessing, but he knew he had to avoid using his right arm as he propped himself up on his left. Nerves wracked, heart pounding and throat parched, he took his time standing once he realized he was alone again. The flow of the fog in and out of everything affected his perception as he shook his head to try and gain his bearings. The brute that had attacked him shifted,mane Navarion quickly looked in its direction; there was no way it could come at him again, but he wanted to stay on his toes.

Color. He saw color.

Very faintly in between the swirls of grey fog, a dark green color peeked through at him. The brute's hide didn't quite shimmer but against the grey within the darkness, it may as well have. A long, sharp nose pointed down over chapped lips as the attacker sneered, its tusks sharp and threatening even in its death throes. Beady red eyes glared at him, shining in pure hatred.

"May you be the bearer of my affliction," it hissed at him before Navarion realized the attacker had never looked up; in a flash, in a microsecond, it lay face down again as if he had only imagined it talking to him.

The familiar light headed feeling set in right between his eyes as his parched throat stung him. The dryness scratched at his tongue, the inside of his cheeks, his gullet all the way down to his stomach as his head throbbed. His body called out to be sated and the thirst became overwhelming until he almost felt willing to cut his own tongue off in desperation to kill the feeling. Frantic, Navarion stumbled forward, dropping his pistol like a fool in his search for water or even mud if he had to. Anything to avoid giving in.

Damp grass squished beneath his feet, but his puffy fingers from dehydration proved too stiff to wet his hands on them. His breathing became heavy as he tried to find some form of moisture. The sense of want, of need, crushed him as he denied his liver the punishment it desired and began flipping corpses over even to find a bit of blood to vampirise. Any liquid he could find to stop the curse from consuming him.

The damp, taunting grass liquified into waterlogged mud as he slipped and slid, unable to walk straight. His heartbeat began to slow down to a dangerous rate from being deprived, and he resolved to force a drought upon himself if that's what it took. He didn't even notice when part of the darkness took form. If had no color, no shape to differentiate itself from the rest of the darkness around it, and yet he could see it without using his eyes.

It did not offer a hand to help him or a drink to calm him, but it bore not a hint of hostility toward the floundering adventurer. Watching, observing, it waited for him to struggle to his knees on his own. Unmoving and unmoved, it watched him through two eyes that were visible despite having no color, no means of standing out against the darkness. From its temples jutted out two protrusions - whether they were ears or horns, he did not know - topping its relatively slender figure. A single row of teeth from top to bottom formed a polite smile on its mouthless face. The single row of piano key-like teeth made no movement at all as the living darkness spoke to him.

Will you let him win?it asked, though Navarion couldn't tell where its voice was coming from.

The dizziness returned as he fought to stay awake. The being wouldn't hurt him, but he had no reason to believe it would watch over him if he passed out, either. He did not like the way it spoke to him, nor did he trust its motives, but perhaps the exchange would help to keep him awake and fight back to his feet.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Navarion replied out loud, letting the searing pain in his ragged throat fester to help keep him conscious and grounded.

It stared at him a little more, making no effort to help him as he braced his uninjured left hand against his knee. The being didn't taunt him or look at him derisively when he managed to stand up either, every bit the perfect definition of aloofness and entropy. The two of them stared each other down, and the fact that he could sense no want from the direction of the being slightly angered him. It was as if it enjoyed wasting its own time.

You should, it replied. There was no mockery in its voice but the comment was unintentionally irritating.

"I need water." His speech was as terse as that of the living darkness, but his carried a resentment absent in that of his interlocutor.

You need to change, it replied again in a non-argumentative tone.

Navarion trudged away, kicking up damp sod as he hoped to find a river or pond, or even a swamp; anything other than the salt water of the sea would do. "I don't know what that means," he grumbled as he walked away. Truly, the being hadn't done anything wrong to him, but his panic, frustration, thirst and physical injury pressed down and he let it all control him.

Without even moving, the being followed him, everywhere and nowhere as it never left his field of vision. It wasn't trying to follow him; it was simply there wherever he went. You can't continue like this, the darkness explained as he walked, becoming more talkitive than he had expected. You're just doing what already hasn't worked; you'll search until you fall and can search no more.

"There's nothing else I can do," he complained. The weariness shone through in his voice but he didn't care. This thing wasn't his enemy even if it also wasn't his friend. At least the depressing conversation gave him something to focus on.

Although it didn't leave his field of vision as exhaustion overtook him, he could feel the living portion of the darkness withdraw into the mass surrounding them both. Not sympathy but a sentiment very close to it radiated from the being, touching Navarion in a way that confused him. If you think like that, then you've already lost.

The words chilled him to the bone as the being disappeared into nothing and left him alone. It could have been another minute that he wandered through the darkness or an entire year; it made no difference. Without interaction with other people, there truly was no life; being alone meant that there was no self.

The dryness itched at his throat until it sheared his hide from the inside out. A heat lacking any humidity or moisture whatsoever spread throughout him from the sheer friction of so much dehydrated tissue grating against itself. Denied of the poisonous medicine, the deadly cure, his body became dry and flaked all over until Navarion was a pile of ash shaped like a man. He broke apart and dissipated, cinders falling apart as he collapsed and lost his shape. The particles sank into the damp soil,mere taken by the wind or floated into the air as dust motes until Navarion Hearthglen was no more. Unlike the corpses of the fallen thieves scattered around, he left no trace, no reason to even be remembered by the world save as dust in the wind to be swept away and scattered to the four corners of the world.

"But you aren't nothing," Zhenya whispered to him softly. "You're right here with me."

The cinders didn't even form a pile anymore. The wind took care of that along with the steep incline of the soil; more of them tumbled down the hill, catching on blades of grass and soaking into patches of mud and very soon they were scattered too far to ever be collected together again.

"It's never too far. As long as there is someone there who knows you, the pieces can be out back together." The callous draenei female's voice carried a tone of concern that was out of character for her. It was both soothing as much as it was alarming, for she would only speak like that if the situation were very serious.

A portion of the cinders dissolved as they hit the water, lost beyond recovery. The wind blew more into the darkness where they would be gone forever. The number remaining in the air as dust motes soon forgot their former composition, becoming a forgotten part of the world as all traces of him were erased.

"I won't let that happen. I have you, right here with me. You aren't going to fade." She ran her fingers through his mane, letting her neatly manicured nails drag a light, tingling trail across his scalp.

A hand that had disintegrated gripped her scarred, battle weathered arm tightly. The injury that had dissolved along with the rest of him dropped back into non existence as a head which had turned to ash leaned against her bosom. She held her arms around the form of a man who had lost his form, pulling him hallway up off the bedroll and into her lap as she sat cross legged in their tent. She rocked him back and forth somehow, even though he was just dust motes floating in the air.

Ocean salt reached his nose and he could see light peeking in from the tent flap. He had inherited the nocturnal nature of his mother and his work schedule of patrolling by night and sleeping by day had been a welcome transition; Zhenya was diurnal but her habits and lifestyle lended itself to defying nature in more ways than one. The soft waves rolled onto the short to the rhythm of her rocking him back and forth, and Navarion clung tightly to her as he tried to return to the real world. No matter how often they'd started to fight since they'd arrived, he needed her at that moment.

He looked at his right forearm, checking again and again to confirm that it wasn't actually broken. Her light breaths tickled his scalp a little more and he was relieved to find that the only part of the nightmare that had been real was his parched throat.

"You were screaming but your mouth was closed," she informed him as they held each other a little longer. It was the most tenderness she'd showed him since they'd met.

"I'm sorry," Navarion apologized, embarrassed that she'd seen him in such a state.

He hadn't experienced a night terror since childhood, and as nice as she was being now, the reality was that he still wasn't comfortable enough around her to relax into her reassuring embrace. Pushing the pessimism out of his head, he accepted her rare show of kindness and just tried to listen for her heart; even Zhenya had one.

"Don't be."

Off in the distance, light snores could be heard. As reserved as elves were and as much as they preferred to have their own space, they rarely camped alone due to safety reasons. They were still within the city limits of New Nendis on an undeveloped portion of the beach, but he vaguely remembered seeing several other couples setting up their tents a dozen or so yards away before retiring for the night. Nobody else would have heard him, which helped him feel slightly less embarrassed.

When his eyes fell to the multiple bottles of alcoholic moonberry juice, the lethargy left his muscles and he felt compelled into action.

"What?" she asked as he left her arms and snatched the bottles away.

He didn't even answer her and didn't care that he was wearing nothing but boxer shorts as he left the tent. The afternoon sun stung his eyes upon his exit, and he clumsily kicked up sand as he made his way over to the rocks on the beach. The transparent wine bottles did little to shield his eyes from the bright rays, but he still managed to reach the rocks before she could catch up with him.

She could already tell what he was going to do as she tried in futility to catch up. The way draenei had so much trouble walking through soft sand always amused him, but he was too focused on his task.

"Wait, don't!" Zhenya protested weakly, likely knowing that he was going to do it for a reason. "We paid over a hundred gold for all this!"

Navarion poured the wine out rather than smashing the bottles; he saw no reason to disturb the sleep of the nearby campers by cracking glass on rocks while they were sleeping. "It's just money. I can earn more." Ever the devoted half Kaldorei, he tossed the empty bottles back toward the tent rather than littering them at sea; the Druids had a means of recycling glass and paper for future use.

Pouting sincerely, she folded her arms in front of her. She was only wearing her underwear as well, and the two of them stood until he'd had a few breaths of fresh ocean air to ground himself again. She didn't ask him what the nightmare was about; he knew her well enough not to expect her to, anyway. After a long while, he made a resolution.

"I need to stop. I can't go on like this."

"You were fine before you freaked out in the tent," she protested, skepticism breaking through in her voice. "One bad hangover doesn't mean you have a problem."

"I'm asking you; I need your help. I want to stop." He turned to her, knowing that even the emotionally desensitized draenei had empathy within her on some level. "Please, I'm being serious."

She kept her arms folded and continued to stare out into the ocean. Both of them were tired, and they would need to get back to bed if they wanted a good day's sleep before reporting to work that evening. Huffing, waving her hand and turning her nose up, she did her best to traverse the soft sand on her hooves and back to the tent. "I'll dispose of the last bottle," she grumbled, her earlier tenderness quickly spent.

"Thank you," he said as politely as possible while keeping his vision focused on the horizon.

It had been more than an entire decade since he'd been cursed. It wasn't a literal curse; he tried to blame his problem on that for a very long while. It was that shifting of blame that prevented him from admitting to the problem for so long. He'd drank hard liquor as a teenager and learned almost immediately that he had a sickness in his heart; that he'd never touched the stuff again after that was a source of pride. Starting again was a source of shame, and he went in and out of bouts depending on who he associated with and how much idle free time he had on his hands. The nightmare of that fateful day in the Hinterlands when he'd been knee deep in the dead once more at a bandit camp in the mountains served to shove right up in his face where he'd ended up in terms of his personal development.

The Loa wasn't a dream; he'd learned from his father that they often just found dreams a better way to reach out without scaring people. It wasn't the first time since the Hearthglen family's personal Loa had delivered its cryptic messages to him; it probably wouldn't be the last. And those messages that happened to be coherent were never wrong...if only he could figure out what the hell it meant.

Zhenya had been gone too long; all she had to do was bring the last bottle back. Navarion turned around to find her seated back in the tent.

"See? I got rid of it," she garbled in between gulps of the entire bottle of Hennessy just as she finished it off. Her tolerance was like a dwarven coal miner's.

Tossing the bottle outside with the others, she flipped her bra and panties off in two fluid motions and lied back down without even closing the tent flap. As if she hadn't made it obvious enough that she needed assistance falling back asleep, she rolled onto her stomach and arched her back at him, pretending like she didn't know he was gawking.

He shook his head as he went back in to the tent to oblige. Her tenderness aside, she wasn't the person for advice or counseling. Perhaps the exercise would help him recover from the post nightmare jitters that shook him. Closing the tent flap beind him, he pledged to quit cold turkey. If anything, the patrolling gig would give Navarion large amounts of time where he wasn't allowed to drink anyway; if only he could rein in Zhenya's own habits. They'd need to focus for the supposed exploratory missions given the rumors of the impending invasion.