Character Headspace, Personal Character
Homebrew Setting
You die, I die. Stop. Fighting. Me.
Asher’s words still echoed in his mind, even though they’d fallen silent again. Kieran sat on the edge of the bed a little longer, hand still pressed against the wound even though the pain had faded into a dull ache. His jaw clenched as he replayed the fight in his mind.
Pain. Anger. Staring down the aarakocra with her hand outstretched from throwing the knife. Hearing the footsteps of the orc approaching. Feeling the buildup of energy, hands forming a spell, ripping it apart in a blind panic, it hits her and blows her back with a clap of thunder, it hits him and he falls back gurgling, running away, panic, pain, panic, pain-
“Fucking stop it,” he snaps, at himself, thumping his fist against his forehead to try and knock the thoughts out of his head. Casper. He’d killed his ally, the aarakocra, Hawthorn was her name, he didn’t even hesitate and Kieran knew he’d done that, he’d wanted Casper to panic, too, or something, but not that. But Mudd… “Useless.” He hadn’t been able to help. Just stand there and wait. Wait with everyone else, hope someone else could help. She was okay but she almost wasn’t -
Keep that up and you’ll just start panicking again. Don’t want to open that wound up, do you? It hurt and I’m not keen on feeling that again.
Kieran ignored it, forcing himself up and off the bed to change. Samara was not going to be happy with the washing this week, needing to scrub the blood from his shirt. He hoped it would come out without much trouble. She’d given him the shirt, after all. The moss patch Orpheus had given him peeled off his skin, a bit sticky from dried blood, but it had helped. He’d have to thank Orpheus for that. Slowly, sore and exhausted, he stripped off his dirty clothes and slipped on a clean pair of sleep pants. Slipping his arms into a fresh shirt, he paused to glance into the tiny mirror hanging above the dresser to stare at the wound. Healed over, but still there. He grimaced and pulled it over his head.
It’s gonna take forever to fall asleep, he thought as he collapsed into the bed. It was still early in the evening. Maybe a nap, wake up for dinner, sleep again. Yeah, that sounded nice. Just a quick nap to stave off the headache…
Orange. Flickering warmth. Muffled voices. A glint of light. Candlelight. Laughter. Drowsiness. Mead. Darkness. One voice. Falling.
wakeupwakeupwakeupwakEUPWAKEUP DON’T YOU FALL BACK ASLEEP DON’T LET ME GO STAY HERE HELP
Kieran sat bolt upright, heaving breaths in a panic, one hand coming up to clutch his chest as it burned and ached. His shirt was sticking to him, sweat dripped down the bridge of his nose. It was pitch dark in the room. How long had he slept? He needed something to drink. As he turned his head, he caught his reflection again. In the darkness, the faintest hint of golden-orange shone for the briefest of moments before fading. Somewhere in his head, Asher shifted but said nothing.
“Fuck.” He pulled his knees up, buried his head in the sheets, focused on breathing until his heart stopped hammering against his ribs, until the ache from the wound faded. “Fucking nightmares.”
That same feeling, like there was something he should’ve remembered, but it was gone, pulled into the recesses of his still-waking mind.
You know, I keep trying, but your subconscious is just so insistent on pestering you like this. It’s really quite annoying when I’m trying to enjoy a nice rest.
“Well, maybe if I could actually sleep a whole night through, my mind could settle itself,” he muttered. “Haven’t been able to do that since you moved in.”
Well, now you have even more time to do something with your life. So many people waste away half of their lives sleeping, when you could be doing so much more! Put those hands to good use, Kieran. Make yourself busy.
Kieran flopped back, hoping in vain he could fall back asleep. Two minutes… five minutes… ten minutes… even though he was still tired, sleep eluded him.
“Fine.”
Ten minutes later, he was dressed and in the kitchen. He could tell by looking out the window that the sunrise was still a couple hours away. Apron on, bowls laid out, ingredients on the counter. Soon he was up to his elbows in flour and oil and butter as he let the methodical movements of developing gluten in the bread dough take over, head empty except to recite the recipe over and over. He rolled the dough into a massive ball, used the bench scraper to divide it into smaller sections, one almost double the size of the others, put them in bowls and covered them with damp towels. The dough could rise with the sun, then he’d punch it down and let it rise again. Perks of waking early.
One of those is for us, yes? We did skip dinner and I am feeling quite peckish after our little excitement. Besides, I think I deserve a reward for being so helpful, don’t you?
Kieran pointed to one of the bowls wordlessly as he cleaned the mess.
Excellent. Do try that brown sugar and honey concoction this time, it sounded delightful when you last thought of it.
“Needy.”
Hey. I’m requesting. Nicely. This is nice, for me.
“Only one. I have plans for the rest.”