Sometimes, dreams were divinations. Other times, dreams were fantasies. Most of the time, dreams were nothing at all.

But this one...this one made Albrecht feel...what? Yearning? Melancholy? Regret?

No, this feeling was more...irritation.

God, the old rooster was loud.

Rolling off the bed of straw, Albrecht pushed himself up with a yawn and a stretch. The Cockatrice's Crow had been the best sleep he'd had in the last few weeks, and to have it cut short by a bird was more than a little displeasing. Still, his muscles felt loose, his knees no longer trembled, and his appetite was returning to him once the smell of pork and poultry reached him. Rotating his shoulders a few times, he cast a glance towards his travelling gear and his sword, before once again considering how light his shoulders felt. Kylliam seemed like a safe enough little hamlet. It'd be fine to leave his stuff in his room while he broke his nighttime fast.

Grabbing his coin pouch, the young man skipped out of his room and down the flight of stairs to the tavern area of the inn. [b]"Morning,"[/b] he said heartily, [b]"What's cooking, friend?"[/b]