Amidst the chaos of the recent fight within the room, a young man clad in a fur coat had ended up being thrown from his cot to the floor amidst several ghoulish looking dead bodies that had also been knocked over. Compared to the thrashing and wailing of the other, newly turned hunters, the body of the Greywood heir was relatively quiet. He had squirmed somewhat, and if you listened real close you may have heard a faint whimper, but he was uncharacteristically calmer than others. To the waking world that may have come across as strange, or a bad sign. However, if you were to peer into his dream you’d understand why.

Yarrow couldn’t move. In his nightmare he was a corpse. His body laid up against a stone alleyway in a sitting position. He was in another country, far from Yarnham. Next to him, and all along the wall in front of him as well, were other corpses in various stages of decay. The sight of corpses had never really bothered Yarrow, nor the scent, and survivor of the blood moon would be fairly used to the sight. Nor had the smell, for that matter, as the thick, sweet smell of incense could often cover it easily if you burned the right quantity. No, the most important factor in this situation were their faces, the faces of his family.

Yarrow’s nightmare felt like hours, years even. The corpses around him decayed, bloated, crawled with vermin, and he couldn’t close his eyes. Yarrow watched on in abject horror as his mother’s body shriveled, his father’s body eaten away by maggots till only half his face had been left. His grandparents, his cousins, his nieces and nephews… Yarrow could only watch them. He lost track of time, his nightmare lasting eternities. Time had slowed for him, it almost stopped. He was denied the thrill of life, the joy of pursuit. Yarrow was forced to live through, to internalize, and finally face the emotions. He had the time to break, his mind shattered, if his heart had still been beating it would’ve stopped. His mind collapsed upon itself in this hell… and yet the nightmare proceeded unabated.

Eventually, in this long nightmare, his mind came back. Yarrow was exhausted, his will to live almost gone, but he was trapped in limbo. In a long eternity of nothingness until finally his family was nothing but dusty bones. Then, for the first time since he came here, something changed. A shadow sprawled across the alleyway, vaguely human. Yarrow began to hear a soft crying. He could not turn his head to look, he could not stand and move, he could only listen and wait. 

The shadow grew larger, the crying became louder, and Yarrow could recognize the voice… the voice of a lover he’d rather regret.  Once again, he could feel his now-fragile mind begin to crack. If he was alive in this dream he’d have hyperventilated, or possibly screamed. His soul was on fire with fear as the creature making the shadow finally shambled into vision.

It was a humanoid, yes. It was ashy and grey, like a corpse, shriveled even. It looked bloodless, exsanguinated, but it still walked. Yarrow could tell it was meant to be his lost love, but it was twisted, disgusting, disturbingly genderless. It bent down to look him in the eyes. Their own eyes were nothing but hollowed out sockets. It moved closer to Yarrow. Yarrow could see its arms, slit from wrist to elbow. An inky black ichor leaked from the wounds. Thick like oil, it smelled like pus. Yarrow wanted to disappear. He could not stand to see this abomination. In the waking world Yarrow began to thrash amidst the other dead in the clinic, it hyperventilated. 

What was once Yarrow’s love began to wail, slowly its hands reached forward for Yarrow’s hands. “You couldn’t protect me!” it screamed, sounding strangled. “You couldn’t protect them!” it said, referring to his family. The walking corpse grabbed his hands, squeezing hard as if to crack bones. Seemingly ignited by contact, the abomination was suddenly lit aflame and fell back screaming curses. “You couldn’t even protect yourself! Look at you! You’re not a man Yarrow! You’re a walking corpse! You have never had a life of your own! You are a black pit of despair and loathing!” Its words were like lashes to his soul. Deep in his chest he finally found breath in this hell of a nightmare. 

Yarrow’s bones surged with flesh, he was no longer a corpse, he was awakening to purpose, to fight. Messengers appeared from the ground and from the alley walls. They shambled towards Yarrow. Some lifted at his arms, he could feel them surge from the ground to push him. The spark of life finally came to him in his dream and he screamed. It was bestial, guttural, and carried all his despair. He surged to his feet in the dream, crying out at the flaming abomination before him.

Yarrow awoke from his nightmare on his feet, screaming at a wall. Around his feet were corpses and those that were still dreaming, he could see others still on their cots, and an open door. He was full of adrenaline, every breath deep and labored. His blood seemed to burn in a way it had never before. Every inch of his body felt new, like he had been reborn. The cracks that had formed in his mind during the nightmare seemed to have disappeared, his control being restored seemed to offer some sort of stability he had not had in that blasted eternity. 

Yarrow’s sanity seemingly restored, he calmed himself, slowing his breathing, looking to the door, believing someone was just on the other side.  He straightened his back and popped his neck, gathering his bearings quickly, and hid his anguish with a quickness that would be unnatural to most. Anyone who would have been able to notice the change in his appearance would likely be perturbed, had they not had experience as a merchant prior of course. Such control over one’s dignity was second nature for those with his upbringing. If only you could see his soul, you would see how twisted he remained.