Avad wasn't sure what it was that awoke him from the half-sleep, half-unconsciousness that he'd been floating in. It couldn't be sound; there was no way to hear, with his eardrums being ripped apart. He wasn't [i]entirely[/i] deaf, but very close to it; a noise would have to be either very close or [i]very[/i] loud to register. It would take weeks for them to heal. It, of course, couldn't have been sight; he was unconscious. His eyes were obviously closed. It was something less concrete than either of those, something that perhaps Sergei would have shared. It was a finely-honed sense, persisting even through debilitation and/or sleep, that made itself known in those that had fought their way through dozens of battles and lived through even more assassination attempts by enemy armies. A combat sense, if you will, that gave him a vague awareness of being watched, of something around him paying close attention to him. If he was more cogent, that's likely what he would've described it as. Combat sense, if you will.

But that didn't matter anymore. Because he'd awoke. And he was [i]not[/i] happy.

The first thing he realized upon opening his bleary eyes was that his ears hurt like the dickens. It wasn't an intense pain that he couldn't think past, but it was nonetheless irritating. The second thing, immediately after, was that he was not, in fact, in a prison. It seemed that he had been slung carelessly underneath some blankets in the back of the wagon, and the only reason he could see at all is because someone had tossed them back. [i]I suppose that makes sense, what with trying to escape an entire kingdom of guards[/i], he groused to himself, [i]but that doesn't mean I have to like it[/i]. Shoving the blankets off him totally, he rose, cracking his knuckles and, immediately afterwards, realizing a single, critically important fact: [i]OH GODS. Everything HURTS.[/i]

He instantly sat back down with an explosive [i]thud[/i], lying on his back with his arms spread out and trying to mute the pain that seemed to emanate from every joint in his body at once. He groaned. [i]What I would not give for some milk-of-poppy right now. Or liquor. A[/i] lot [i]of liquor.[/i] Though that probably wasn't a good idea, given how queasy he was feeling. Some detached part of him realized that his symptoms were simply the result of a heavier-than-usual magical overdraw, and that even six years' worth of energy in that stone hadn't been enough to fuel that spell without some of his own. His eyes remained open, looking up at the sky, clear blue and totally cloudless. The leaves of the woods rolled past him, set to the rhythm of the bumping of the cartwheels across the ground, and he found himself sinking into that blue void, leaving himself behind in a kind of meditation. The pain in his body dulled and he inhaled deeply, suddenly appreciative of the clean forest air. It smelled of loam and water.

He'd never been the best at meditation, and before too long, the world came creeping back. The pain remained slightly diminished; he was extraordinarily grateful for that fact. Sitting up, he called out in a dry, rasping voice as loudly as he could, (that is to say, slightly louder than an average person's speaking voice) "Where exactly are we going? Actually, better question: where [i]are[/i] we?" He wasn't sure to whom he was asking these questions; ideally it was the merchant, who he belatedly realized he'd never asked the name of, and it had presumably been given during his first overdraw, but he supposed anybody could serve just as well, as long as he got an answer. With that said, he lay back down and continued watching the sky go by.