Old bones.

[catch]

He was not made for running, but that was a thing that the hand of man could never pry from the primordial ancestry that lay deep, and deeper still, within. He had found a way to run, even as the biggest puppy, even now, when muscle and rolled bulk and fur made for toughness and fighting. While he may not be as swift as a Lord's hound, or a King's Courser, he was a dog. Oftentimes, he outpaced them; many times he ran right past them, as if he had a devil on his heels, all rolling eyes and flapping jowls, foam flecking his lips and his chest.

He would be someplace ahead of them, or behind, when his deep, throaty call of 'RROWF, ROWF!' rolled through trees and across hills, barking at a squirrel or a fluttering squall of birds that arose soon after, and his satisfaction was deep when he came gallumphing back again, to waddle beside Cherny's pony, the picture of doggy contentment. Not for long; long enough to be certain the boy was doing all right, to chuff at the wave and the smile, to speed up, a little, to watch Glenn with a rolling of his eye. Enough to catch his breath, and he would be off again.

[Glenn]

"Not I. I don't dream these much, to be honest." Still smiling, but it was an easy thing as he rode beside Cherny and the carefully propelled pony. An eye drifted towards Many-Fights now and again. There were unanswered questions there, and that nagged at him, pulled at him. Less so than in years past, but still... little maggots under the skin, biting and gnawing, things he did not know, things that should not be. It was Glenn Burnie's role in life to dissect them. Or it had been. Now? Now there was a different weight upon him.

None of it showed in his smile though. "But I know a number of others who had it. "And I was part of such dreams in years past. Artificial dreams. Dreams created by a being who would poke and prod at us as if we were ants. This is, in part, what we're going to look into. I was told a story, you see, by a rather powerful being, and that story leads to our destination, and what we will uncover there, might be the key to the whole thing." Dangerous, as he said, but a weighed danger, perhaps, one well worth the cost. "It is my intention that none of my people have such dreams ever again. This is a step along that path. Since you've been so victimized, I'm glad you get to have a hand in today's work."

Oh, and before he forgot. "Best if you don't associate with Khalika Quiller. You're likely to catch something."

[Cherny]

Many-Fights, at least, has found a way to keep warm, barreling back and forth along the path, panting great huffs of steam into the cold air. Cherny's finding his own means of travel to be somewhat exposed, not quite as effective at keeping the blood flowing through limbs and extremities. So he huddles into his coat, collar turned up, thin shoulders hunched to keep the cuffs hiding his hands.

The greater part of his attention is upon the hound, and he sits up in his seat to peer after him as he lumbers off, or greets each return with a pleased grin. He still listens to the Governor, though, glancing across to him regularly; taking in the explanation of other such dreams, of finding whatever lies at the heart of the whole business. An important matter to have the Governor involved, certainly, but if it was all that important - or dangerous - he'd've brought along Constables or soldiers or some such.

"It's not th-the d-dream witch is it, s-ser? I've s-seen her, c-couple of times." Some wariness there, bearing in mind the warnings he's had about that creature. The falchion's weight at his side isn't as reassuring as it might be, as he thinks back to watching the knife-fingered lady fighting with Ser Aleks. No, if it was her they'd've brought a larger company, more heavily-armed. That makes sense.

"W-what were th-the other d-dreams about, ser?"

[Glenn]

What were the other dreams?

Oh, it was said with stuttering, but the question was clear, and truly... was any thing at all to be said stuttered, that was as good a choice as any. Burnie would not shelter young Cherny, though. One does not invite a boy on a quest like this and then shelter him. From danger, perhaps, but never from truth, and truth was the blade that the Governor wielded without remorse. "They come in pairs. An individual one, one that means to show you something about yourself, that pulls from your heart, your memories, your past. And then a shared one, one that encompasses the dreamers of the first and puts them together in a situation that churns, that is full of unnatural pressure. While others get caught up in the wake of it, those involved are relatively few."

Glenn was looking at the lad with an appraising eye now. Did the boy understand what that meant? No? Then the once-mapmaker would elucidate as clearly as possible. "The wake of the most recent dream was not particular wide, not as wide as some others previous. So, young Cherny, you're all too associated with a remarkable crowd, or part of that crowd yourself."

It was much to devour, but did not answer the question, not really. Did Burnie frown? No, not over this, not over much anymore. "The last shared dream was horrific. A festering, ghoulish landscape. Magical gems fused to our collarbones, primed to explode. Enemies linked together. Death after death."

Frown? No, he'd smile, even if it was a grim thing. "We ride to find the means to combat this."

[Cherny]

At first the Governor's answer seems vague, speaking in broad generalities that do little to provide an idea of what to expect. He listens, though, frowning slightly as he hunts for meaning, for things left unsaid. But there's no need, as further details are provided; enough to draw a clearer picture of what was involved. The Governor describing him as possibly remarkable earns a self-conscious shrug in reply, huddling deeper into his coat.

A shared dream. Well, that's not so bad, as it means one's not trapped and alone... but mention of enemies hints at why that might not be such a good thing either. So he's quiet for a time, thinking hard, dark eyes distant as he considers what he's been told.

"B-but it w-was a, a dream? And, and y-you knew it was?" In the boy's experience that knowledge was usually enough to wake up, that awareness that one was dreaming, lying in bed, that the dreams weren't real. If it was a magical dream, however, a spell, then maybe the dreamers were kept asleep that way. So how could this odd little quest, Governor and dog and boy and groom, hope to stop the dreams? How do you fight a dream, anyway?

"What w-were you m-meant t-to do? To, to n-not die? What d-did th-the, the being" Borrowing Ser Burnie's word. "want?" That thought prompts another question, the answer to which might even provide a possible way to fight the dreams.

"C-could you n-not j-just, just not play?" If you're aware of it, of it being a dream, of it being a trick, what reason is there to go along with it? A very simple, almost childish reaction to being compelled or coerced - straightforward defiance, a stubborn refusal to allow the being whatever satisfaction it might seek.

[Glenn]

"It was a dream. Some of us knew. Some of us didn't. It felt real. It felt surreal. Regardless," Burnie spoke with a tone that was focused, that was driven, "we knew we were at its mercy. More than that, the first dream, the first shared dream, before I arrived, had very real consequences. Fire and pain and death." Ariane had known. She'd been through it all before. Jirai thought life itself was a dream. "Most of us were just trying to survive."

More questions from the boy. It was interesting. He was curious in the most dangerous ways. Burnie had been, of course, but that had been different. He had been older. Cherny, though? "We had to keep moving. We had to keep close to those with us. To our enemy that we were tied to. If we died, they died as well. Horrifically. Aeryn Karolinger woke up without a hand because he lost it in the dream. That was the point of no return for him. We all woke up touched."

This boy. The governor looked at him somewhere between whimsical and bemused. How could this end? What would Myrken make of him? So damn young. "I stood there in the end. This was five years ago, you have to understand. I stood there, having watched my friends fall around me. I stood there and I shout to the sky and I ended it." For himself, on his terms. For everyone else as only Ariane and Rhaena were left. "Either it was a dream or if it was reality, and if it was reality, it was no reality which I was going to live in. I couldn't stop it but I could stop that being from getting anything else from me. I could rob him of that." Him, finally. There was not nearly as much emotion in Glenn's voice as one might expect. Years later this was all matter of fact. His hatred was a cold, contained thing.

[Cherny]

It's something the Governor might have learned from Rhaena: the boy is quiet, yes, but sharp, and there's frighteningly little that escapes his notice. Curious, too, and for its own sake more than anything; occasionally some matter catches his attention, and he pecks and worries at it with endless questions until he is satisfied he understands. Most of the time, though, he's content to let others ask, and to listen closely to the anwers given.

Here he has no such luxury, and presented with something as curious as these dreams it's up to him to ask, to find out. The answers received so far are less than comforting, however, and he considers them solemnly.

Glenn Burnie describes the end of the dream, death and fear and mutilation, and the boy is pale and silent throughout; looking ahead along the road without seeing the winter woods, imagining standing in a similar place, after similar horrors. There's a flicker of satisfaction as the young man finishes with his gesture of defiance, but it's a while longer before Cherny finally looks back to the Governor, offering a small nod.

"I'd l-like to, to help st-stop it." The dream of flames had been a terrible thing, full of pain and desperation and despair. That it had been engineered, inflicted, was simple cruelty, and thus something the boy can only despise.

But there remains a question the Governor hasn't answered, and which thus bears repeating.

"W-why did he d-do it, though? Whoever m-made th-the dream. What d-did he want?"

[Glenn]

No, there is no luxury here, unless the boy wants Many-Fights to ask the questions. This is how Burnie thrived: One on one, a captive audience, piercing questions and dangerous revelations. Cherny had found himself under the Governor's shadow, at least for today, and there were opportunity and answers to be found there, but they did not come lightly. "I'd like to stop it too." A nod back. How did you fight a dream? You couldn't stab it. You couldn't choke it. You couldn't put an arrow through it.

"When I arrived here, Cherny, more than five years ago, the first shared dream had taken place. It led, as much as anything, to the destruction of the Meeting House. I arrived and no one had done anything in response. No one understood what had happened. No one had asked questions, and therefore we were victimized once again. Do you understand how that made me feel? That we had been treated like toys, like ants, and our response as a people was a large gaping nothing?" Cold, hard words, words of iron and steel. If something flickered hot and passionate, it was buried far underneath them.

Still, those words gave way to a small smile. "I'm sure you hear all sorts of things about me and what I do, now and again. When you hear such things, think on that, for it is why I do so much of what I do, pleasant or otherwise."

But, even as they rode, more slowly than Glenn would prefer, Cherny had asked another question. Why. "As best as I have learned, and this is through encountering both the being a few scant times and another who claimed to be his creator," cool, clinical, professional, a scholar's dispassionate words; time has provided distance and the illusion of control. "he uses us to learn. He puts us through terrible ordeals to learn of humanity, to learn of his own options, to understand reactions as part of a private war... no, a private game that he wages. Through us, he learns what moves to make." Dispassionate right up until the point where Glenn Burnie spat upon the ground beside him. One bound to a princess of propriety did not do such a thing lightly.

[Cherny]

There's a cold anger behind the Governor's words, and it has the boy growing quiet and watchful, hoping for it to pass. He knows that tone, knows not to draw out the temper behind it by attracting attention. Only a small nod in reply to questions that are for the most part rhetorical.

"I've n-not heard much, s-ser." Is that an attempt to placate him, to reassure him that he's not the subject of gossip, of griping? Possibly so, but it's far more the case that the boy really doesn't move in circles where conversations stray to the Governor or his policies. Except. "You g-gave S-ser Catch a g-goat, and a, a house. He's v-very f-fond of both, ser." That he approves of such kindness is plain in his voice and the grin that lights his features briefly, before their talk returns to darker matters. The why.

That the Governor has faced the maker of dreams is not entirely a surprise - or at least, it's the sort of thing the boy imagines Governors must do, confronting people or things that trouble the land, endeavouring to see them resolved, removed. He considers Ser Glenn's answer carefully, mulling it over for long moments.

A man waking without a hand; pain and death. Even the first dream, the fire-dream, had been too cruel a thing, and the boy could think of no justification for such a horror to be inflicted on anyone. Dark eyes look up, peering to where Many-Fights gallops back and forth between bare trees and dead undergrowth, and can only be glad that his friend hadn't needed to experience the dream himself.

"Th-that's n-no good r-reason at all, s-ser. Not f-for, for hurting f-folk."

[Glenn]

It wasn't that Burnie was superstitious. It was simply that he knew Cherny spent his time at the Dagger. If anyone was going to contest his policies and decisions, or lack there of, they would likely all drip downhill into that Tavern. It was simply the way of it and it always had been. Regardless, the topic turned to Catch, even if momentarily. "I would not answer Catch's difficulties with anything but an attempt to help him. Either we're better than the alternative or we're no better than those monsters that would prey upon us." Once upon a time, a few years ago he might have felt different, but both he and Myrken had changed. Different needs. Different means.

Means and needs. "He contests against a being even more powerful than himself. A god. To us we're cattle. Trained.." Not dogs, no, not with many fights there. "Fleas. We perform tricks and occasionally do something that he cannot, for we have wings and he does not, and by watching us, he learns, he develops the ideas he uses in his war, his contest, his game. And then he laughs and justifies it as teaching us about ourselves."

The Governor would pause, would look to Cherny, as if for the first time. "You are very, very young. I do not say this as an insult or to dismiss you. Your voice. The school. An arrow through your flesh. More than that, I imagine you've seen things, amazing things and terrible things. You've come by a weapon, no?" You couldn't fool a swordsman about some things. "Imagine two years of this. Imagine five. You'll be my age in ten or so. Imagine ten years of it. As you get older, you'll have more options, more of a hand in what happens. There's a price."

[Cherny]

A creature powerful enough to drag Myrken's sleepers into dreams of his own creation. To set them against one another in a shared dream, one that left wounds on waking. A creature to whom people are fleas. And it's in conflict with something more powerful? There is the beginning of an understanding as to quite how deeply the boy may be in over his head.

How does one confront something like that? How can one hope to stop it? But here they are - a man, a boy and a dog attempting to do just that.

A weapon, and by that the Governor surely means the sturdy blade that weighs down one side of the boy's coat, such that he must adjust the garment every now and then, settle it more evenly across his shoulders. A small thing, but noticeable to the eye that looks for it.

"It's f-for l-last resort." A quiet explanation offered, as if wary in case carrying the weapon might get him in trouble; certainly it had met with Gloria's disapproval, and he was fairly sure that Sera Olwak would take an even dimmer view if she knew it came with him to the school. "I d-don't r-really want to, to use it." He's not that kind of boy, the sort who gets a weapon at his hip and becomes a swaggering bravo, keen to show it off and to make use of it. He's keenly aware of the foolishness of such - scrawny Cherny the mill-boy, stick-thin and runty. If it gets to the point where he's pressed to use the falchion it'll mean things have gone terribly wrong.

He's been visiting the tavern since the summer, and the Governor's words have him thinking back on the things that have happened since then - the people met and the creatures encountered, the strangeness of so many of them. He's been frightened, threatened, chased, cut, bit and shot. And yet he keeps going back, because he's made friends there - good friends, treasured friends, and the alternative is a life of bleak and lonely silence at the mill, distant from the town, from the tavern, from the world.

Imagine two, five, ten more years like this last six months. Ask that of a boy who deals in days, rarely looking further ahead than the next time he might go to the tavern or to the schoolhouse, to touch the world outside that crow-haunted clearing in the forest. A boy who prefers by far to live in the now.

"I c-can't, s-ser. C-can't imagine." Quiet desperation, trying to do as the Governor bids only for his mind to shy away from the attempt. Anything could come to pass between now and then. He might finally exhaust what little patience Elliot or his teacher possess and earn a knife for it. He might be struck down by another mad archer in the treeline. He might be devoured by a great wolf as he walks to or from the tavern. He might be sitting enjoying a bowl of stew only for a drow to--

Better by far only to think of now, or tomorrow at the furthest.

"There's, there's t-too m-much as might h-happen."

[Glenn]

"I could see if someone from the militia would train you." Not Ariane, of course. Never Ariane. The last thing he would ever do would be to give Ariane a student with a sword. "I know it's hard here, Cherny, but I'd rather you learn to use your mind and your wits than to use a blade. I understand the temptation to do otherwise, that without the luxury of safety, you cannot take the time to build up character and ingenuity. That said, we do try to keep you and yours safe." It wasn't Burnie's fault that the millboy had decided to spend his time out of work and school at the Broken Dagger after all. Nor could Glenn fault him for it. Hadn't he done the same?

That was straightforward enough.

The rest, though?

"You can't." The Governor played with that idea as they rode. It was disappointing, perhaps, but hardly a surprise. "Of course. So few Myrkenborn can. It's not a slight against you, Cherny. It's understandable. That doesn't make it less of a shame. You've spent your life focused on surviving, focused on where your next meal would come." Perhaps it wasn't that bad but it still did not allow the freedom necessary. "If you ever wonder why do what I do, why I make the sacrifices I make, take the risks I do, that's why. I fight so that the generations to come can dream of a future that's beyond tomorrow. That's the sort of dream I'd have for my people."

[Cherny]

Training. Training in the use of the gifted blade, so it might be more than an awkward weight upon his coat lining, or used for idly hacking at saplings. "Th-that'd be useful, s-ser. If th-they've the, the time." Mention the militia and he imagines dour-faced yeomen drilling and marching, stout Myrkeners hardened by heavy toil. He couldn't imagine that they'd have much use for a scrawny miller's boy who'd never amount to much in a battle. But, well, it's an opportunity offered.

"It's n-not so b-bad, s-ser. I, I've work, and bread." Plenty of bread, yes. Plenty of work, too, dusty and tiresome but at least indoors. "It's m-more w-what happens. Or m-might happen. I w-was, was t-talking to the M-marshall when sh-she, when she w-was, when-" No, no good; unable to continue for a moment, forced to glance away with a furious scowl at his own weakness, his own reaction to that memory. A span of slow breaths before he can speak again, his tone steadier, if quieter.

"I d-don't s-see how that c-can ch-change, ser. It's, you c-can't expect it or s-stop it." For all his defiance he'd heard Elliot's warnings, listened to them, resolved to exercise caution... and been felled by an arrow from nowhere, from someone he'd never met and never even saw. What could anyone, even a Governor, do to defend people against something like that?

"Like w-with this, s-ser." He nods to the road ahead as of to indicate their eventual goal, risking a sidelong glance to gauge how annoyed the Governor is with the boy's impudence in disagreeing, in failing to see how all Glenn Burnie's sacrifices could possibly make a difference. "W-whatever it is. If we d-do s-stop it, it's all, it's already h-happened. Th-there's already p-people hurt. These th-things, you d-don't even know th-they can happen until th-they do."

By which point, of course, it's always too late for some poor souls.

"All I c-can do is, is look out f-for my f-friends. B-but I c-can't even d-do that all the t-time."

[Glenn]

"They're good men," the militia that was. A few women too. A woman might have a disproportionately hard time being a landowner in Myrken, but when things were tough, they were almost always allowed to bleed for their homeland. "Some lost sons and daughters over the years. I'm sure they wouldn't mind sparing a few minutes here and there to make sure you do more good than harm with that." Though he'd pause just a little. It wasn't that long ago that he'd gone to Ariane, five, six years now. "I mean it. A last resort. That's a good thought. That sword is power, but it's a very specific sort. There's a cost to it. I'd rather you learn to get by on wits and learning. Just a last resort."

Then Cherny voiced his arguments and points to the boy for having the gall to do so. High demerits, however, for having an opinion so fatalistic. "Alright, then. Let's say you're right. Let's say we turn around right now. Have some warm cider. Get out of the cold. Then what happens? People get victimized again and we can't fight back." A hand rose as he ride beside the boy. "I'm sure you think that even if we stop this, something else will arise. That we'll be putting out fires forevermore. You may be right. There's a difference though. Before, the fires would burn and burn. One leading to the next, recovery in-between all but impossible.

"Now though? Now I buy us time, Cherny." The cold anger had given way to a steady resolve. "No one did anything after the Meetinghouse burned. After the first dream. No one barred the hen house and the wolf stormed back in a few years later. Damn me if I'm going to let my people get preyed upon by the same thing twice. We fight back, and in fighting back, we buy the time we need for you to go to school, for a girl your age to learn how to knit and sew, maybe how to read. For a farmer to raise his family. For a shepherd to lay down for a few minutes and look up at the stars. These are luxuries we didn't always have and ones we have to fight for."

Something at the end though. Different means for different people. "That's why I gave up my freedom. That's why I chose to stop running even though it meant that I'd never be safe again. To protect my friends, and the things I care about. That's how this all started for me, and if you looked around, I think you'd find that it's how it started for all of us. The Chairwoman, the Marshall, Cinnabar, Aleksei, all of us. All I want to create for you, Cherny, is a world where you don't have to sacrifice as much as I did for your friends. That's why we're riding now."

[Cherny]

"I'll g-go then, s-ser, if they'll n-not m-mind." Perhaps a foolish worry, because whether they minded or not would make little difference if the Governor instructed it, but it's a theme that Cherny is intensely worried about seeming a burden, inconveniencing them or holding them back. "What c-cost, ser?" A price mentioned more than once, but not elaborated upon, and the boy is sharp enough to surmise that the Governor's not talking about mere coin. "W-wits are, are alright, s-ser. B-but they don't s-stop knives. Not all th-the t-time."

Unsurprisingly the Governor doesn't seem to share the boy's pessimism - or at least, he recognises the truth in it, but refuses to accept it. He speaks with confidence, with determination, with the assurance that comes with strength and power. As is to be expected from a man in his position, a man who must lead.

There's frustration in the boy's features as he glares aside into the woods, an inability, he thinks, to make the Governor understand. Because as far as he's aware Glenn Burnie has always been like this - this steadfast, this resolved. Adults are immutable things, behaving now as they ever have done and ever will, the boy's brief span of years too short for him to see how people change and evolve, how they're shaped and altered. So Glenn Burnie might not have held his current exalted post when he first arrived in Myrken Wood, but Cherny's image of him is as he is now, Governor in manner and bearing and ambition and all but name. How could he understand what it was to be a boy like Cherny, weak and fearful and outmatched in all regards by everyone he meets.

He listens in any case, frowning, though careful to offer a grin and a wave whenever he spies Many-Fights looking back at the little party from further along the road.

"I d-don't mean t-to give up, s-ser. Th-that's, that's no g-good." No, never that. For all his physical frailty there's iron enough in his heart to keep fighting, even against overwhelming foes - really, for him, what other kind are there? "It's. It's j-just, I don't w-want p-people hurt at all. Not even the first time. The f-fires need to, to s-stop starting."

Angry, a child's railing against something unfair, for what is more unfair than the lot of Myrken's people? To toil and strive and hope, only to be struck down at random by something they'd never be able to imagine or expect or prepare against. Virulent plagues, fire and destruction, crushed underfoot by gods and monsters who barely even note them at all, other than as food or fuel or footsoldiers, puppets and toys to be played with until they break.

"It all n-needs to, to stop."