Consciousness washed over her senses like a great avalanche; heavy, cold and unstoppable. After-images of the seventh nightmare still lingered in her mind, haunting her yet with visions of herself trying to scrape off all the blood from her arms and her face, but to no avail. It simply clung to her skin like tar and touching it seemed to only smear it farther. Just as she could not rid herself of the blood, she could not ignore its dreadful implications – or worse, its dreadful foreshadowing. Dark dreams had poisoned her sleep and made slumbering akin to a gentle suicide, a journey that she now knew would only lead to misery. And yet, her body yearned and ached and she wished for nothing more than a few more hours of night.

Perhaps a part of her craved the nightmares.

Jillian awoke softly, neither moving nor opening her eyes after realizing that she was in control of herself once more. For a dozen or more restful minutes, she lay as she had before, breathing shallowly and paying heed to the soft stroke of the morning air upon her colorless cheeks and temples. Her face was dreadfully pale and covered in a fine, even layer of damp sweat to which wild strains of red hair clung chaotically. The perceptive observer would have also noticed that her body shivered ever so slightly with every passing breath she took, almost as if she were in the throes of illness. Her skin, however, was appallingly cold and could not have been further from the onset of a fever.

She came to realize that her mouth felt incredibly dry, her tongue all sticky from a lack of moisture. When she parted her lips to inhale a deeper breath, attempting to invigorate herself through more energetic respiration, she seized up halfway through her exhalation and breaking into a brief fit of coughing. It was not a particularly violent cough, but enough to rock her frail form. Upon recovering, Jillian gave a low, annoyed grunt followed by a particular obscene invocation of some deity’s indecent body parts. If nothing else, the event aided in restoring a modicum of vim into her, enough to motivate her to open her sleepy eyes; they looked red and sore.

Although she might have looked and acted the part, Jillian knew that she was not truly sick. She had been in a constant state of mild sickliness for years now, the intensity of her malady fluctuating with the seasons and her moods. It was usually worse in times of stress and after particularly taxing days, which yesterday would certainly qualify for. Ever since she had pushed her body to its limits as a mage on a regular basis, she had developed a condition of wasting weakliness. It was the same reason she could barely stomach to eat more than a few bite sized portions of any meal, no matter how appealing it might be. It was a shame, and she sometimes wistfully recalled her younger years as a little girl. She had been a lot healthier then and perhaps happier also. Certainly no worries had plagued her then.

Finally, Jillian attempted to lift herself only to realize that, as soon as she raised her head, that a pounding migraine had its painful jaws locked around her head. Dispirited, she weakly collapsed back onto her not particularly soft bed; a simple woolen sheet laid out over the damp grass. It was at this point also that she became aware of how sore her joints and shoulders felt and that she had, until today, never slept under the open sky. There were those who adored nature in its primal and untouched beauty and who would relish a chance to sleep beneath the mystical stars and life-giving boughs of trees. Jillian was not one of them. The moment the thought entered her head, a great hatred of sleeping outdoors set in. She could only hope that it would not become a common occurrence in her new life.

She lazily rolled onto her back and moved a hand up to her forehead, wiping the moist film from her skin and then simply laying her palm where the pain was worst. If there was anything good about this morning so far, she noticed, it was that her energy at least was accounted for. Although she lacked Gerald’s acute senses to precisely distinguish between her own energy and that of the Anaxim forest, she felt satisfied with the power at her disposal and already began fantasizing about ways in which she could quite literally burn it up. If only the same could be said about her body.

Curious to see how everyone else was doing, Jillian looked first to her left, then to her right, still refusing to raise herself. From her low vantage point, she could see Gerald sitting up not far from her and, beyond him, there was the rather difficult-to-miss body of Renold, still asleep. Crone she could not see from where she was, but she imagined that the old woman had probably foregone sleep entirely. Something about her agelessness and mastery of magic made her think that she must have transcended basic human needs like sleep or food – or, indeed, dying. What an incredible luxury to own, she thought.

The witch looked at her wetted hand, withdrawn from her forehead, and wondered no more why she felt so dried out. Perhaps, she wondered, a cold drink would refresh her. She cast her gaze towards the pond and was simultaneously distraught by its apparent distance, as well the prospect of even thinking about drinking foul, stagnant lake water. Or water at all, really; a cup of apple cider would have exactly the kind of kick she craved then.

“Gerald?” she weakly called out, feeling bothered about having to speak with such a dry mouth. “Would you be a dear and fetch me some water? I’m not feeling so good.”