There was only silence, not even the rain could penetrate the stillness of the damp city streets. He felt it, long before he could see or hear it. Upon his arms, icy cold droplets cascading down his face. His hooded cloak clung to his skin, the rain soaking through to the bone. How long until his eyes adjusted to the darkness? How long until he became aware of his surroundings, only to realize that he could not escape?
Death was the only means of escaping this prison, and although it felt like a millennia before he could see the sky, he continued wandering over bridges, running for hours through deserted streets, climbing ridges, and there was only the rain. It became a familiar companion, often accompanied by fear, isolation. There was only the rain, lost amid the endless night.
When his eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, there before him arose a flock of crows, hundreds, thousands, rising as the darkness solidified into an undulating cloud. Above the barren city streets, scattered across rooftops, screeching and flapping. These birds clung to the fences, dancing on branches and roofing shingles alike, cackling. They swarmed around him. What had he done to deserve this? Screeching and clawing at his face, tearing at his exposed flesh, pecking at his limbs.
Tugging his hood down over his eyes and running, he felt the warmth of his blood mingling with cold droplets, though the sheets of rain weren't enough to wash away the scarlet ribbons that painted his skin. Bleeding, aching, and screaming in agony that was blinding him to his surroundings, he ran in mindless terror, the birds tearing at the fabric of his cloak, ripping the material and slashing his shoulder. Then, from the center of the flock arose a deafening cry, like calling thunder down from the heavens.
Looking up briefly, he was able to make out the shape of a hideous monster, bird-like in appearance, though only its body resembled that of a person. Its shape was humanoid with the head of a crow, sporting claws like daggers and talons on its feet, these makeshift blades clicking against the pavement. Withered wings sprouted from between its shoulder blades, its form skeletal. Visible ribs, an abdomen caved in from lack of food, each and every vertebrae poking through the withered skin on its back. From the darkness it was born, and from the shadows it arose, screeching and snapping its beak. Only this time there was no escape. Not even the sound of the rain, nothing but absolute terror in silence, all consuming.
Moving with lightning speed, it struck him down, talons slicing through tendons and tissues, a spiral of blood circling the sewer grate in the pouring rain. His screams were lost amid the calls of the crows, the endless screeching hoard waiting to pick apart his remains. He fell to the beast, howling in torment, fighting a losing battle. By rights, he should have been dead. But Death had abandoned this world long ago.
He thought he would perish, only to awaken once more, gasping and gazing up at the darkened skies, watching the clouds chasing the storm. Trembling, he raised his hands, bringing them to his face. Then came the usual mantra, repeated hoarsely, grating against his vocal cords.
"I am not dying, I am not going to die. I am not dying, I am not going to die. I am not dying, I am not going to die." His voice broke, choking on a half strangled sob when he looked at his hands and realized there were fingers missing. Deep wounds had been carved into his shoulder, his sleeve drenched in blood. What kind of nightmare was this? And once more, the crows were gathering on the fence post.
Not dead, but surely he should have woken up by now. Wasn't that how dreams were supposed to work? If you died in a dream, you woke up in your bed. So why was he still trapped here? Why couldn't he wake up?
Cradling his bleeding hand against his chest, Credence stopped to examine his surroundings. The pain he felt in his throbbing stubs was real, intense, blinding agony. Try as he might to focus on figuring out where he was, the despair he felt at being lost and helpless coupled with the searing pain made him fall to his knees, his chest heaving with wretched sobs. This wasn't how dreams were supposed to work. Dreams weren't supposed to hurt so badly. Could he even be sure that this was a dream? Maybe he was already dead. Maybe this was Hell.
His eyes squeezed shut against the pain, Credence bowed his head, fighting against the blackness that crept into the corners of his vision. He was dizzy, the world turning on its side as lightning forked overhead. Distantly he was aware of the blood trickling past his wrist, dripping and pooling in the ground beneath his feet. Blinking once, twice, gritting his teeth and struggling to draw breath without screaming. Dreams weren't supposed to feel like this. Not even nightmares were usually so vivid and intense.
His head struck the pavement a minute later, finally giving in and allowing his consciousness to fade. There was no telling how long he lay there, the cold penetrating his frail form. The streets were covered in filth: shredded pieces of newspaper, discarded bottles and crushed cans, a tire and a crowbar, as well as some broken chunks of concrete. A layer of grime coated the asphalt, an accumulation of filth that had been undisturbed for a number of years. It might have been years that he lay undisturbed as well.
His eyes fluttering open, the Obscurial groaned, still painfully aware of his missing fingers. Perhaps that bird monster was nibbling on them somewhere, or had taken them back to its nest to feed its young.
Glancing upwards, he soon became aware of the crow standing near the side of the road, its cold eyes burrowing into the depths of his soul. A second crow landed on a broken tree branch, inching closer, eyeing him with curiosity. The sight was unnerving, the injured wizard scuffling against the ground, trying to sit up. His hand left smears of blood against the pavement, pushing himself into a sitting position. Seized with terror, Credence was unable to tear his gaze away from the birds, not until a flutter of movement caught his attention.
Staggering to his feet, he chanced looking over his shoulder at a torn fragment of newspaper, its ragged form held in place by a broken bottle lying on the street. With a final glance towards his unwanted companions, Credence stooped to pick up the paper. The page itself was faded and damp from the rain, a picture of a hospital printed on its weathered form. The accompanying text above the image said, "Need any help? We will help you for free."
Considering his situation with the loss of three fingers and grievous wounds, Credence decided the hospital was the best place for him right now. They couldn't reattach what had already been lost, but he could get stitches and something for the pain. Maybe one of the nurses could give him some information on where he was and how to get home, if returning was even possible at this point.
"I am not dying, I am not going to die," he repeated once more, as if it were his only salvation. "I am not dying, I am not going to die. I am not dying, I am not - " Breaking in midsentence, he caught sight of another scrap of paper in the distance, further down the street towards the bridge.
His curiosity getting the better of him, Credence stopped to take a closer look, seeing the words, "Why can't we wake up?!" printed on the newspaper. Instantly he was struck with the cold weight of dread, tightening around his chest and causing his heart to stall momentarily. Further investigation revealed similar messages on the torn papers, as well as a bizarre headline scrawled across the front of the newspaper.
"Lost? Visit our hospital," Credence read aloud, taking a moment to study the sloppy handwriting. It looked as though a child had written the message using a purple crayon. But before he could finish analyzing the peculiar writing, the message faded, transforming into a weather report that stated there would be heavy storms arriving late this afternoon. He could already feel the first heavy drops dampening his cloak, splattering the newspaper. It was enough to tell him that he needed to leave this place, following the street and crossing the bridge into the city.
Though by now his strength was rapidly fading, due to a combination of pain and blood loss. Once more shadows crept into his vision, struggling still, gripping his injured shoulder with what remained of his left hand. The Obscurial managed a few awkward, shuffling steps, repeating his mantra until his breathing became labored, his mouth dry.
He couldn't continue like this. His sight was swimming, catching glimpses of the birds that had begun to gather along the concrete barrier that lined the edges of the bridge. They were watching him, waiting for him to fall. He couldn't die here, not in this place. The crows would peck apart his remains if he stayed here. He had to keep moving, he had to reach the hospital and find someone who could help.
"I am not dying, I am not going to die. I am not... not going to..."
His consciousness fading, Credence collapsed on the bridge, the rain plastering his cloak against his back as he lay surrounded by a flock of hungry crows.