Howahkan Mato found that he quite enjoyed taking his meals at the local watering hole. Although his tribe had continued to teach the art of the hunt and harvest to his generation, the land of Avalon had not given them much practice for their arts. The shaman found excellent food and drink ready for him at the tavern, giving him a perfectly leisurely start to his day.

Of course, his day started before dawn's first light. As an apprentice gunsmith, he worked much of the morning away, only stopping for a meal and strong beer in the late morning before he continued his studies.

This morning was different from the others -- his master teacher had been at a meeting with the Merlin the day before, vying for the coveted place to become the next Merlin. He wasn't surprised when his master called him in the previous night, settling him in on making bullets and casings and shells until they were both falling asleep over the anvil.

His master had gone to bed, but Bear was content to spend the rest of the day in his cups, pleased that he was able to help not only his master, but also his people. Mindless busywork didn't worry him -- he had a plan. Once he knew the forge was mostly deserted, he was going to set up his own series of projects...

The wiry, dark-haired Native blinked and looked around as he was addressed. His dark eyes rose up along the form of the gunslinger, and a pleasant smile stretched his mouth.

"Hau, Gunslinger." His voice was a low roll of thunder, deeper than expected in such a small man. "I am a refugee from Yuwipi-Wanagiyata - from Avalon. I am Howhakan Mato, but your people call me Singing Bear." He stood respectfully and offered one calloused hand in greeting.

-SWITCH TO Trouble In Camelot-

-ABORTED-

John got to his feet shaking the elbow off, he grunted looking at the old man "Fighting is gonna happen, by choice or not." He stated grabbing any clothing he might have and making way for the door. What was on his list was to make it back to the Merlin to find out what he missed since his absence..

Monk nodded and made a prayer directed at the cross displayed at the closest end of the room, as if to say who deserved John’s gratitude. He then started to play the supplies in holes of a case, and the scrolls also in another designed for them specifically and separately. “You are free to go, but you must stay out of fights,” he released and returned back to John’s side. He placed a hand beneath the other’s elbow to encourage him up. “Vampires are especially life-threatening.” His plain-spoken remark was like a precursor to sarcasm, or patronizing.

John took the drink between his lips swallowing as commanded by the strange healer man. It wasn't much else he could do for all he knew it could be poisioned.. Then again what would be the point of saving him. He looked up to the healer noticing cleft on his chin was the most noticeable feature on his face.. Also his vision wasn't the best


"Thanks."

The brown clad, down-hooded monk remained turned away as he dabbled with several bottles upon the table, basking in the careful placement in front of an eastern window. With an average height and featureless apparel, the most noticeable thing about him (aside from the brown, flyaway halo of hair circling a growing bald spot) was his quiet demeanor. It emphasized the clanking of measuring tools, the tinkling of glass and the crinkling of turned pages as he prepared a concoction. He swiveled around with a vial in hand and locked brown eyes on John as he walked forward as the tassels of his rope-like belt bounce with each stride. He stopped at the bedside to scoop John’s head up and titled it back as he offered the liquid in monotone, “Drink, please.” This close, the blur of battle fatigue couldn’t fuzz out his features.

Graying hair flanked his wide brow with open eyebrows and gentle, if tired, eyes, and all of that above a long nose. His thin physique and advanced age made for loose skin scratched with a thin beard and mustache. The flesh of his lips midlined in volume and emphasized the flow of the upper, an easy pair to smile with, if he ever bothered. He clearly had some sun, despite his bookish aura, and a cleft on his chin helped to distinguish an otherwise weak characteristic. He was no fighter—not hardly—and not a looker either with those ears flared out, but confidence still showed, or maybe this whole business bored him. So much blood and bruises and broken bones; it was just another day in the life of a healer as John already knew from a lack of a hole in his body.

John was unamused by not recieving a answer from the unknown person. "Hey? You here me?" He said louder expecting a reply.


(SURPRISE.)

The intention of this mans words wasn't lost on Rose. The ex-Gunsmith met the mans gaze evenly, with as much honey in her expression as his flowery words to her were said. Hands folded in front, and a standing straight Rose listened to what he had to say before stealing a glance at the machine when he mentioned the lack of parts.

"Well, Sir, first I must say that your concern for these machines is admirable. When can only hope everyone here is looking out for them like you are." Rose smiled sweetly. "As for parts, well, I think being in a factory will aid in that respect, don't you think? You're all so innovative, I'm sure parts could be made."

Rose opened up a panel as she spoke and revealed her handy work. The shine of the metal, the way it seemed to hum and not scrape with sound like the other machines. Rose stepped aside and opened the panel of one of the others. It's insides were crusty and hurt the ears just to listen to it. One of the gears looked like it was about to pop off.

"As you can see, the mistake here isn't in what these hands would do." Rose said raising up her pretty little hands. Her manner calm and unphased. "The mistake would be to ignore my talents to serve the inflated ego of the factory workers, and their presumptuous arrogance that I'm not any good to serve the purpose for which I have been called for."

Rose let her hands fold in front of her again. She knew her last words must sting. It wasn't how she would have liked to do this, but it seemed he was just another one of those guys that kept popping up to get in her face. All because of her little past choices.

"Now, unless you want that rusty gear to pop out and shut down this machine, you can sit down and get to work." Rose smiled. "So that I can get to my work."

"Whoa... shiny," Margo said as she examined Rose's work, impressed with the outcome. There was truly not a spot of rust left. "Well that's one down."

Some of the regular factory workers took notice and exchanged questioning glances. One of them, a slender grey-haired man, stepped forward and said, "Hey, I appreciate you being here to help out and all, but can I just ask you to please not mess around with the machines? We don't have many spare parts for them, y'see, and it only takes one mistake to cause problems."

Margo squinted at the man, not fooled by his civil tone. She 'knew' that the factory workers didn't want Gunsmiths around, just because they might do a better job of running the place, and Margo thought of telling the man just that, but managed to bite back her retort. She looked to Rose, wondering how the older Gunsmith would respond.

Roland offered a rather gruff sigh to Meredith’s shenanigans. “Really Mere-? We are supposed to travel together, and while I love stroking Merlin’s beard-hair against the grain- I have to agree with the man on this: it is dangerous to travel alone.” It was then he pressed a hand to his chest as if he was about to state something monumental. “And what if I get kidnapped- Mere? This damsel in distress won’t fetch many knights to come save him from the evil Goblin King’s clutches.”

The man followed her into stables where his own horse was saddled and read to go: a white Welsh Pony Horse with a strong stance and a seemingly disgruntled outlook. His name was Archimedes, and given his stoicism, patience, and misanthropy- he did deserve his name. “So get your horse saddled- we are burning daylight.” It was then he paused and glanced the woman over. The look upon her brow and her incessant bantering about him ‘going ahead’ did poorly to mask her apparent lack of equestrian knowledge. “Seriously Mere- do you not remember how to saddle a horse? Does the ‘lowly born ranch boy’ have to help you prep?” It was then he paused and a revelation sparked across his eyes. “Wait wait- not yet- lets’ draw this moment out a bit longer. I want to relish it.” Roland held up a hand in hopes of staving off his female accomplices groaning and moaning. He managed to pop back into reality shortly thereafter. “Alright let’s get you on your horsey- and pray to the Christian God above you still know how to ride.” He then offered a pale whisper, “side-saddle because you are a lady- I think.”

As the highest authority currently present in Camelot, the Merlin had command of the city's Gunslingers and the very law itself. Though the thought never occurred to him as he called after the trio, "Hey, wait, I wasn't done talking yet!"

Just then, when Landarin stepped in and took Sparrow away to evade further discussion, the Merlin was strongly reminded of his old friend, the king of Camelot, Gunther, in his youth. Brisk, blunt and quick to rescue women from serious conversations.

"Want me to get them back?" the Caliburn Knight at the door said after Landarin, Sparrow and Mitchell had virtually fled out of the workshop.

"Oh, just forget about it," the Merlin replied, then muttered with a smile on his face as he turned towards the wizard's tower, "Gunslingers."

Now what on earth was that girl going on about just before she left? the Merlin thought as he entered the tower. He had no doubt that benign spirits existed in the world, but was there any such thing in Arthuria? Food for thought... he honestly did not know.

~~~

"Are you sure that was a good idea?" Mitchell said as he tried to keep up with Landarin, who was walking as fast as one ought to after what he had just done. "I mean that was the Merlin, I don't think brushing him off like that was a good, er..."

The young Gunslinger fell into a bemused silence as he watched Sparrow acting, well, curiously. When she expressed her disapproval at Landarin's cigarette, made all the more amusing by her foreign accent, Mitchell couldn't help but chuckle, in spite of his wariness towards the woman.

When he realized that the Caliburn Knight guarding the workshop was not giving chase, Mitchell decided that there was nothing to worry about after all and walked out in front of Landarin and Sparrow, taking the lead.

"It's a bit dark right now, so try to keep close," Mitchell said as he walked past the statue of King Arthur and down the path towards the city gates. Thinking about the healer's house several streets away, he added, "I hope John's doing all right."

~~~

In the healer's house, John was lying stretched out on a healing altar, one of several beneath the cross of the crucifix which hung on the wall directly opposite the front entrance. The healer had gone to work immediately after Mitchell knocked on the door and quickly explained what happened before leaving.

Not a second was wasted in treating the wounds, knowing what vampire inflicted injuries could potentially lead to. By some miracle however, there was no trace of infection in John's blood. The healer figured that the injuries were caused indirectly and after closing the wounds, he went to fetch some dressing so the Gunslinger's flesh might heal naturally without risk of infection. That was about the time when the dream happened.



John was sitting cross-legged within a circle in some house, but not the one he was currently inside in the real world. The walls were blue, the very air seemed blue, and standing over him were several white robed figures with their hands held above his head, chanting rapidly in some foreign tongue.

A voice began to speak as though it were coming from within the very centre of John's mind, but it was most certainly not his own voice. It was a woman's, the same as the one who had been talking to the Merlin through a crystal ball, what was her name? John did not recall ever hearing it, though he could guess that she was the ruler of Avalon.

"Warrior," she said, her voice faint yet resonating with power. "My time here is short, so listen well. Your mind was strengthened as well as healed in this place. You will not remember, but you must know."

A pause. John realized that the voice had been ebbing as though it would vanish at any time.

"The Goblin King will try to win through guile what he could not take by force. Go to Avalon before it's too late... and beware the lies."

The circle around John began to glow white and then intensified until it became a blinding glare. The chanting began to fade away and, eventually, so did the light. John was still squinting his eyes as he woke up and, when his vision gradually cleared, he saw the healer looking down at him with a curious expression and a handful of medicated paper strips.

"Where am I?" John murmured.

(Krie, you post first and then Morph, reply as you will)

As Meredith walked to the stables, she slung her bag towards her front and took out a pair of leather riding gloves which she had not worn in a long time. Fortunately, they could still fit over her hands. Unfortunately, she had not worn them in a long time, because she had not ridden any horses in a long time and, without having the space of thought to dread the prospect last night, it only occurred to Meredith now that she was at a very probable risk of making a fool out of herself.

The last thing she wanted was for Roland to be around to see that, and she could only hope that he was either going to be late or already on his way out of the city. Of course, true to fortune's consistently spiteful nature, Roland was already there at the stables and, by the looks of it, for some time now.



"Oh, were you waiting for me?" Meredith said as she entered the stables. "My fair haired blondie, you honour me, but do take your leave first, I insist."

She had no idea which horse to choose.

"No doubt you already have your steed saddled and ready, so don't wait on my account."

She had mostly forgotten how to saddle a horse as well.

"Seriously, just go. I won't be far behind."

And there were no stable hands around at this time of the morning yet.

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Sparrow lowered her olive orbs to the older man, when he remarked about how some of the spirits around here weren't nice or good. She saw how unnerved he was, when she mentioned the Spirits. What was so bad about that? The Spirits were guardians, protectors, and mentors. They wouldn't really want to harm people all that much, unless they were use to be alive and human. Tilting her head to the side, she would remark softly, as her gaze looked away, almost over Merlin's shoulder as she spoke. "Yet not all Spirits are like that. There are some, who do not suffer the morals of what you White Men know of." She then went silent once more, never once speaking up.

Then Landarin butted in, stating that he would take her off their hands. Sparrow's dark gaze, went quickly towards him, keeping a blank face the whole time. It was almost hard to even tell what this native female was thinking half the time, since she wasn't expressing herself like she usually did. But that was because she was in unknown territory. You didn't really bare your neck in a crowd of wolves right off the bat, would you?

Soon enough, the male in question, told her to follow once lighting a strange stick on fire. Sparrow sniffed the air a bit, following right behind quickly as her slightly covered form was silent as she walked on her bare feet. Once outside, and in front of the other male from before, the female was moving up towards Landarin a bit more. Lifting her head up, going on her toes, she put her face in close to the male. But what she did, would be funny. Sparrow sniffed at the lit stick, and then made a slight face. Moving away, she would shake her head, as she spoke in a tone that seemed almost sad. "That is bad tobacco. Where did you get such weak stuff at?" It was pure curiosity when Sparrow asked that. Her hand sliding up to push her dark hair behind a ear, as a wind came by. She instinctively moved her face into the wind.

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↳ ██ █ ██▌▌{ NATIVE AMERICAN } ▌██▌█ ██ ↲

Landarin pulled out a cigarette and lit it, watching Mitchell leave as he thought about the statements. Sliding his lighter back into his pocket he addressed the Merlin.

"No worries, friend. It's probably nothing bad," he said exhaling a large puff of smoke as he spoke. "I'll take care of her for you if you don't mind."

In truth Landarin had no idea if it was a good or bad thing, he couldn't tell what the spirits were saying. Either way he couldn't just let the Merlin send sparrow back home. She was here for a purpose and Landarin knew just how that felt. With no desire to stay there any longer Landarin stepped forward examining the map quickly. Stepped back once more he bid the Merlin a quick farewell not allowing the old man any room to navigate for more questions before turning towards the door.

"Follow me," He said to sparrow as he stepped out of the tower. With the native in tow Landarin walked past Mitchell heading towards the nearest gate out of Camelot that he could remember. He didn't think the Merlin was a bad man but he still wanted to get Sparrow away from him as quickly as possible. This land was a strange place especially for someone not from it. Landarin needed time to rest and think, therefor he needed to get his home up and ready as quickly as possible.

Taking another drag off of his cigarette he directed his attention to the gunslinger. "Lead the way Mitchell."

The Merlin blinked in confusion for a moment then replied, "Spirits? I, uh, I have no idea what you mean by that, but I can see that you understand a bit of our language at least."

The old wizard turned to Landarin and said, "You're from America, right? I can tell by your gun, do you know what she's talking about? I just want to know if I should be feeling concerned or not." Then to Sparrow again, somewhat warily, "You're an Indian, aren't you? You should know that this land is no stranger to spirits, and few of them have ever been kind."

Mitchell looked between the Merlin, Sparrow and Landarin, wondering what this whole talk of spirits was about. Such things had an ill reputation in Arthuria. Indeed, there were many stories of dwellers near the frontier suffering from the presence of ghosts and demons, as if vampires and bandits weren't enough.

Mitchell had also heard a few stories about America from travellers and the like in the odd tavern. The country supposedly even had its own barbarians. What they were called, Mitchell couldn't remember, not until the Merlin had mentioned it anyway. All he knew about Indians was that they were to the Americans as the Scottish clans and dwellers of the frontier were to Arthurians. Savages.

"I'll wait outside," Mitchell said to Landarin as he took a final uneasy glance at Sparrow.

He had found it a little unnerving when she was looking, no, inspecting him with such intense curiosity that it seemed almost animal-like, but she didn't seem so terrifying... and then Mitchell remembered seeing the woman stick her hand through the vampire's gut like a spearhead, and that was that. Mitchell decided to stay well away from her and began to wonder what might have happened if she meant to do any harm during their sudden encounter. It was an unpleasant thought, considering that she had the drop on him in more than its literal way.

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Sparrow was silent the whole time the conversation went on. As it was, she didn't see the need to speak up, or say about herself to this small buff like man. Instead, her olive green orbs wandered around the room. Always looking in a different place, each time. Yet when she felt eyes on her, she did quickly glance to stare at the person in question that would look at her. A few times it went to Landarin. Other times it went to the one called 'Merlin'. After a while, the scantly dressed female made her way to a collection of books on a shelf. She would look at the objects on top of it. So far, she couldn't shrug off the whispers of the Spirits while in that room. They mostly were centered around the older male, who was doing most of the talking. Just as he was about to leave, the man from before she fell upon, entered. The shrewed eye male soon left, and the older one left real quick to a place.

Sparrow's dark gaze, wandered over the blonde man that entered. She couldn't help it, she ended up wandering around him. Her gaze looking him up and down as she reached out to pluck at his sleeve. Sparrow was a curious one, that was clear. When she heard a door open, she simply wandered away once more, this time to a window when the small man came back. The native easily understood what was being said, her time with the Outsider in her tribe helped with that.

What she didn't like, was how they were talking about her, like she didn't understand a thing. There was a difference between able to speak it then understand it. Then again, she never stated that to Landarin at all. He just assumed by her slow speech, that she didn't know much of their language.

That's when the Merlin said about sending her back, gaining the females attention. After the whole conversation ended, Sparrow spoke up in a stern tone of voice, her voice was like honey and smooth when she spoke. "Will not go back to tribe's homeland. Sparrow came here to find answers, truth of where she came from. That is Sparrow's task. The spirits led me here, and here Sparrow came." She was soon pointing a finger at Merlin, as she tilted her head, her eyes curious as she spoke in a low voice. "Why do the Spirits talk about you? Sparrow listens. They speak of wonders of you, of something great. Why is that?"

If her stating that whole grouping of words didn't get them to know she knew how to understand their language, she didn't know what else would.

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↳ ██ █ ██▌▌{ NATIVE AMERICAN } ▌██▌█ ██ ↲

"Is that so?" the Merlin said as he glanced at the woman again then turned to enter the wizard's tower. "Well I'll deal with her later then. Just give me a moment to find a map and then I'll have Martin guide you to your spot."

Not wanting to be saddled with such a job at all, Martin cleared his throat loudly for attention and said, "I was actually on my way to the factory before coming here. I've already chosen my people and gotten the foreman's permission to take over the place, you see, so I should really be there by now."

The Merlin stopped in his tracks and replied, "Wait, what's this about taking over the factory?"

"You did say to form teams, so I formed one. I figured all the revolver specialists could be put to work on making ammo if they're not making guns. You know, on account of what you said about every Gunslinger having-"

"Yes, yes, I know what I said," the Merlin grumbled. "Fine, I'll allow it, but someone's going to have to escort our guest here."

As if on cue, the door of the workshop opened up as the Caliburn Knight standing guard outside called out, "Sir Mitchell Landerson here to see you, Merlin."

"Yes, send him in. Well Martin, looks like you can be on your way now. I'll visit the factory tomorrow to see if you settle in all right. If not, I'll find something else for you to do."

Martin simply nodded and left without another word, not even glancing at Mitchell as he passed by.

"Well onto business then," the Merlin said as he entered the wizard's tower. "Just wait right there, I'll be back in a moment."

Mitchell entered the workshop and went to stand beside Landarin. The young Gunslinger tried not to pay much attention to the strange woman, as he still remembered being in the way of a very sudden crash landing.

"I got John to a healer," Mitchell said to Landarin. "So what's going on here?"

Not too long afterwards (and Mitchell guessed that Landarin wasn't going to say anything anyway), the Merlin came back with a scroll and spread it open on a table.

"Your land is right here," he said, pressing his finger onto the map and leaving behind a singed spot. "It's remote, it's on a hill and close to the city. You'll like it, I reckon. If you need help building a house, there's plenty of folks willing to land a hand nearby. They're mostly farmers and whatnot, but they know a thing or two about making what you need, otherwise, there are professional carpenters in the city if you've got the coin for their services. Mitchell, I'm assuming you know your way around these parts."

"Uh... I guess I do," Mitchell replied, seeing where this was going. He didn't mind, but after the fight with the vampire, he wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep already, although he doubted whether he'd be able to. "Had to ride to a lot of places during training and I think that area's one of them, so yeah."

"Okay, good. Kindly escort mister Ellenmyer to his spot, and here." The Merlin fished around in his pockets and offered a few coins to Landarin. "This ought to be enough for a room at any tavern in the city until you get your house built. Now... I'm not sure what to do with miss Sparrow here."

Mitchell watched as the Merlin stood in front of Sparrow and looked up at her for a moment, frowning in thought. "So Mitchell, Landarin said something about finding her on top of you. Care to elaborate on that?"

"Well, uh, it was all very sudden," Mitchell replied nervously. "I was making my rounds on night patrol, just outside by the walls, and then the next thing I know, this lady comes out of nowhere, falling from the sky and landing on me. I fired off a single round on reflex, but didn't hit anything, and then Landarin and John came over while I was, um, on the ground. Landarin's the one who pushed the lady off me and she scampered away behind some rocks. We were about to give chase, but then that vampire showed up and after a while, for some reason, the lady came back to help us in the fight and now here we are."

As the Merlin hmmed and looked up at Sparrow again, Mitchell was beginning to feel a little hesitant. He had only meant to say what he said as it happened, but now the thought occurred that he might have inadvertently landed the strange woman in hot water.

"I might have to get someone to question her, figure out what she's doing here in the first place," the Merlin said. "If language is too much of a barrier, I suppose I should send her back to wherever she came from. America most likely. Only place I know with clothing like hers."

The Merlin looked at Landarin and Mitchell, and said, "Well you two can leave now. I hope you enjoy your stay here in Camelot, mister Ellenmyer, and thank you again for dealing with that vampire. You as well Mitchell, and John Reduns too. If you don't mind, please check up on mister Reduns tomorrow to see how he's doing. I'd like to hear his side of the story about the whole vampire business."

Mitchell didn't feel right leaving Sparrow to an uncertain fate with the Merlin. She did help out in the fight against the vampire after all, but what was she doing, sneaking around outside the walls of the city at night? Perhaps it was for the best to not get involved, whatever it was.

The man stood over six feet, even hunched. A bulbous spine shoved high. It arched the neck of a pointed head. Someone previously shaved its skull and face poorly. Razor cuts marred what clear skin they exposed. His flabby jowls and double chin flopped about a prickly face.

Shivers stirred as Marianna stood in place. In that moment, she wanted to shut down her stare and lock herself away. Pretend him gone. Her gaze remained glued to him. He had no such luxury.

Two wild brows mantled two wild, bulging eyes, a single more so than the other. Only one actually leered at her. His left dangled onto a furry, shallow cheek. It flopped and swung, but nowhere near as disturbing as the one wrestling from in his socket. His skin seemed elastic, with a crusty first layer, sun-damaged, an assortment of warts, freckles and discoloration.

Half a mouthful of teeth spat blood and slaver. He stretched it impossibly wide at her, close to dislocating. Dentures hung behind thin lips. He choked out a guttural shout, and spittle flung into the air. She started, a sharp inhale hitched behind her tongue.

Marianna found herself abruptly outside the house. The walking corpses infused together, one mass of bobbing and weaving bodies in her periphery. The house changed though. Another superimposed behind the large man. Her bottom jaw felt as if it might fall off, quivering numbly, dry. She gaped and gawked, wider still.

He must have been over three hundred pounds. A large hernia fell out of a massive gut. So many bodily fluids leaked out of his body that it challenged the stomach to guess. His feet slammed the ground when he charged. A shot knee forced a blundering gamble, barely slowing advances. His flesh and fat sloshed around, rotting in his own skin, bowling back and forth, with every bumbling.

Marianna never mistook the happenings though. She thought quietly, “It’s just a dream.” Her fear didn’t believe her. “Just a dream.” She couldn’t move. “I’m asleep.”

She knew him, but she didn’t know him and she didn’t want to. “It could only be.” Still, she froze. “Only a dream.” Her legs clenched up as the adrenaline stole away escaping. “Only…”

He ambled quickly, within a yard of her. She bowed backwards in a last attempt to flee, eyes wide. The wall of him rose to raze. Her own voice echoed at her now. “He’s gonna kill me.”

She never heard her shriek of terror. Her sight suddenly sliced into sideways streaks by a blast of sound. It splattered the entire scene across her eyes, and she woke up. It came without any quickening of her slumberous breathing, stiff as rigor mortis as it seemed. However, her heart fluttered against a gripping pain. Her tension tried to squeeze it still or at least to remain inside her chest.

Marianna glanced around the head of her hat, eyes tearing up for the silent helplessness she felt. Heartbroken, it felt like. Her throat had squeezed every shriek into a suffocating ball. It prodded up against the back of her mouth and the front of her neck, harsh and insistent. Voices sounded around her and she relaxed to appear asleep, but far from it and sure to be for a while.

The dream began as most dreams did, starting in the middle with no sense of how or when it happened. All Marianna was aware of at first was a voice calling her name.

"Marianna..."

It was a man's voice, rich and strangely seductive. Marianna couldn't help feeling drawn to it, yet so full of dread at the same time. Something told her not to trust the voice, but each time it said her name, she was becoming more enthralled.

"Marianna... Marianna... Ma-ri-aaaaan-na."

She followed the voice but after the third repetition, it ended with harsh mocking laughter and with that, the spell was broken, but Marianna could still feel a deep sense of unease.

There was a house in front of her and, for reasons of dream logic, it was floating just a little off the ground. Marianna turned the door knob and entered the house, then closed the door and went to the window nearby, looking out into a sea of darkness. It felt familiar, but Marianna didn't know why.

"I'm still awake," she said, but didn't know why.

Her right eye was starting to itch and she didn't know why... or maybe... yes, that was it. She was still awake back then. She was still awake and the voice that was calling her name had said-

"Oh woops, you aren't suppose to remember that."

No, that wasn't what the voice had said, but the things it was saying now made Marianna feel - know - that something bad was going to happen.

"Don't worry, little girl. I've planned for this as well."

Of all the things Marianna could have questioned or been confused by, all she said was, "What do you mean 'as well'"?

The voice never answered her. All she saw next was the pitch blackness outside the window turning into a greyish miasma with a mob of shambling silhouettes. They were shapeless, formless, silent, but moving and getting closer. It was almost enough to make Marianna scream... then the voice said in a conversational tone, "Oh, look who's behind you," and then Marianna did scream as she turned around to see one of them.