Chapter 13
Lessons, Memories, Dreams
> Dreams are the subconscious echo of lessons learned, a tapestry woven from the threads of our daily experiences, fears, and desires. In sleep, the mind revisits what the waking world cannot fully comprehend, organizing and reinterpreting the day's events among countless other mysteries. But, we were not meant to voyage far in the space between black infinities.
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> — Scribe of the Nocturnal Studies Department, Scholarium Arcanum
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> Valerius Marcellus
Godfrey knocked on the door, and after a moment, Aunt Alice’s cheerful voice called out, “Come in!”
As Godfrey stepped inside, he was greeted by the sight of Aunt Alice bustling around the front room, setting up a makeshift bed with neatly folded linens. She turned to him with a broad smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Oh, Godfrey! It’s good to see you, but you smell like you’ve been wrestling with a pig! Now, I expect you to wash these linens when you’re done with them, understood?”
Godfrey blinked in confusion but managed a nod. “Uh, sure, Aunt Alice. I’ll wash them.”
Aunt Alice nodded approvingly, then added, “Good boy. I’ve left a fresh set of clothes for you in the washroom, so be sure to clean up before you lie down.”
As Godfrey stood there, still trying to piece together what was happening, John walked in, a small smile playing on his lips. “I see Alice has already given you your orders,” he said, amusement clear in his voice. “Come on, lad, get cleaned up. You’ve got some important training ahead, and you’ll need to be comfortable for it.”
Godfrey glanced between the two of them, still not entirely sure what to expect, but he obeyed without further question, heading toward the washroom to change into the soft clothes Aunt Alice had laid out for him.
He quickly washed with handfuls of water from the basin, the cool liquid refreshing against his skin as he scrubbed away the grime of the day's training. Once clean, he dried himself off and dressed in the soft clothes Aunt Alice had provided, the fabric warm and comfortable against his skin. As he adjusted the fit, a small part of him began to relax, even as his curiosity grew about what was to come.
When Godfrey returned to the front room, he found John standing by the makeshift bed, his expression serious but not unkind. John gestured for Godfrey to lay down, and Godfrey, still a bit confused, complied, the soft linens rustling beneath him.
John pulled a stool over and sat down next to the bed, leaning in slightly as he began to speak. “Godfrey, there’s a specialization of Focus that many Hands learn, though it’s not often talked about. It’s called dream manipulation. Now, this skill has little to no use on the battlefield, which is why it’s not a primary or even secondary priority for most. But it’s incredibly useful for training.”
Godfrey’s brow furrowed as he processed the information, trying to grasp the implications. John continued, his tone calm and measured. “When a Hand is skilled enough to learn this, they’re typically past their formative training years. By then, their foundational skills are already set, and while dream manipulation can enhance their abilities, it doesn’t have the same impact as it would if learned earlier.”
John leaned back slightly, his eyes locking onto Godfrey’s. “But you, Godfrey—you’re still in those formative years. If you can learn this now, it will have exponential effects on your training and growth. You’ll be able to practice in your dreams, reinforce techniques, and even face simulated battles, all while your body rests. It’s a rare opportunity, and I believe you have the potential to master it.”
Godfrey felt a mixture of awe and apprehension. The idea of training in his sleep, of using his dreams as a tool for growth, was both thrilling and daunting. “How do I start?” he asked quietly, his voice tinged with determination.
John gave a small, approving nod. “You start by trusting me and letting go of your conscious mind. I’ll guide you through the initial steps, and from there, we’ll see how your natural abilities take to it. This isn’t something that can be forced; it has to flow naturally.”
Godfrey nodded, closing his eyes and trying to relax as John’s steady voice began to guide him through the first steps of dream manipulation. The soft comfort of the makeshift bed and the warmth of the linens seemed to meld with John’s calming words, easing Godfrey into a state of deep relaxation. The world around him began to blur as he let go of his conscious thoughts, drifting towards the unknown, ready to explore a new frontier in his training.
XXX
Godfrey slipped into slumber, his breathing deepening as John’s voice became a soothing, rhythmic cadence in the background. The world around him faded, and soon, he found himself adrift in the murky depths of sleep. At first, it was a formless expanse, a void where time seemed to stretch and contract without meaning. But then, something shifted.
John’s voice, still present, began to repeat in a steady, deliberate sequence. It was a subtle change, but enough to draw Godfrey’s attention. In his dream, Godfrey’s eyes opened, and he realized he was still on the makeshift bed. The room around him was familiar, but…different. Everything was slightly out of focus, as if viewed through a fogged lens. The details were there, but they wavered, shifting like smoke whenever he tried to grasp them fully.
His heart quickened as he understood—he was dreaming, and he knew it. John had guided him into a lucid state, where the boundaries between reality and dream had thinned to a mere thread. Godfrey could feel the bed beneath him, solid and real, yet the room itself seemed to pulse and waver, responding to his thoughts and focus.
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When he directed his attention to a specific object—a chair in the corner, the flickering candle on the table, or even the pattern of the wood grain on the floor—it sharpened, becoming as tangible and clear as in waking life. But everything else remained unfocused, like a painting with only certain details brought into crisp relief.
It wasn’t a place in the traditional sense; it was more of a narrative, a story woven from his mind that he was now consciously participating in. The room wasn’t just a room—it was a construct of his imagination, a canvas upon which he could project his thoughts, fears, and desires. The potential of this space thrilled him, yet there was an underlying current of unease, a recognition that this was both a powerful tool and a new frontier that could be just as dangerous as it was useful.
“Now, I believe Tarlow showed you a bit of swordplay this evening. I want you to try to recreate that in this story. The dream world isn’t under your total control; you can add details, even major ones, into the ongoing narrative, but ultimately you have to play along.” John’s voice came from almost every direction, distorted from some angles yet clear from others.
Godfrey nodded, though he wasn’t sure if John could see him or even if the nod itself was entirely real in this strange dreamscape. The room around him pulsed with potential, shifting and morphing as his thoughts brushed against its boundaries.
He focused, drawing on the memory of his earlier training with Tarlow. The room rippled as his thoughts took shape, the bed fading away as the wooden floor stretched outwards, transforming into the clearing where Tarlow had pushed him to his limits. The air became thick with the scent of pine and earth, and the sounds of the forest began to fill the space—birds chirping in the distance, the rustle of leaves, and the occasional snap of a twig underfoot.
Before him, the familiar figure of Tarlow materialized, sword in hand, his stance poised and ready. But this Tarlow was different. He wasn’t quite the man Godfrey had trained with earlier—he was a projection of Godfrey’s mind, a manifestation of what he had experienced and learned. The real Tarlow had been intense, relentless, but there had been a playful edge to him. This Tarlow, however, seemed more focused, his eyes sharper, almost as if he was a distilled version of the man, a pure representation of the lesson Godfrey needed to learn.
“Remember,” John’s voice echoed through the dream, a disembodied presence guiding him, “this isn’t about controlling the narrative entirely. It’s about navigating it, influencing it. Recreate the swordplay, but don’t be distracted by the differences.”
Godfrey tightened his grip on the sword as Dream Tarlow suddenly roared, his voice filled with a grief-stricken fury that shook the very air around them. "You will regret killing my family, fiend!" The accusation hung heavy in the clearing, and before Godfrey could fully process the words, Dream Tarlow lunged at him, his blade a blur of motion.
Godfrey’s mind raced, trying to keep up with the barrage of attacks. He recognized the pattern, the rhythm of Dream Tarlow’s strikes, but there was an unpredictability to it, a slight deviation from the norm that kept him on edge. Before, he had been simply trying to survive Tarlow’s onslaught. Now, he was able to analyze it in more depth. This wasn’t just a test of his physical abilities; it was a test of his ability to adapt, to anticipate, and to overcome the unknown.
Then came the move—the one that had ended their bout earlier. Dream Tarlow’s blade rose high, preparing for a devastating overhand chop at Godfrey’s shoulder, the same maneuver that had caught Godfrey off guard before. But this time, Godfrey was ready.
As he deflected Dream Tarlow’s falchion, the stinging cry of steel on steel was joined by a keening wail that escaped Godfrey’s lips, almost unbidden. The sound was eerie, resonant, a song that seemed to rise from the very depths of his soul. It was as if the vibration of the clashing blades had triggered something within him, a primal, instinctual response that intertwined with the rhythm of the fight.
The wail was not just a sound—it was a weapon in its own right. The notes echoed through the dreamscape, reverberating off the trees and the earth, making the air itself shiver. Dream Tarlow hesitated, his form flickering as if destabilized by the unexpected intrusion of Godfrey’s song.
Godfrey could feel it too, the power of the song coursing through him, aligning with his movements, guiding his strikes. The song was not one he had ever sung before; it was born of the battle, a chaotic melody that matched the ferocity of the fight. Each note seemed to strengthen his resolve, each pitch sharpening his focus.
As the dream continued, Godfrey’s song grew louder, more confident, weaving itself into the very fabric of the narrative. Dream Tarlow’s strikes became more erratic, his form wavering as the song disrupted the flow of his attacks. Godfrey pressed his advantage, the song driving him forward, giving him strength.
And in one horrifying instant, Godfrey’s upper body was violently separated from his head, as Dream Tarlow, with a sudden, grotesque assertion of Control, shattered every bone in his arm to extend it unnaturally, whipping the falchion in an impossible arc that cleaved through the air and struck Godfrey’s neck with deadly precision.
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Godfrey awoke with a scream, bolting upright as the memory of the dream’s final, gruesome moment replayed in his mind. His heart pounded against his ribs, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he tried to shake off the remnants of the nightmare.
John, who had been asleep, sitting upright in the stool next to the bed, jolted awake at the sound. He blinked rapidly, disoriented for a moment before his eyes focused on Godfrey. “Godfrey? What happened?” His voice was hoarse, concern etched into his features as he leaned forward, placing a steadying hand on Godfrey’s shoulder.
Godfrey shook his head, still caught in the terror of the dream. “He…he killed me,” he whispered, the words trembling on his lips. “Tarlow, he…he used Control to…his arm, it was…”
John’s eyes narrowed, understanding dawning as he listened. “Dreams in this state can feel very real,” he said carefully, trying to calm Godfrey. “They’re not just figments of your imagination—not really. The way it was explained to me was that they’re your memories, recreated by your mind. They will degrade over time, so Dream Tarlow will be less skilled every time you fight him. But remember, your subconscious is powerful—it understands things about your body that your conscious mind doesn’t fully grasp.”
He then glanced around, lowering his voice as he leaned in conspiratorially. “Of course, you should know that most Hand use this ability for... more conjugal purposes while on campaign, if you catch my meaning.”
At Godfrey's horrified expression, John let out a hearty laugh. "Lad, you'll have to get over your modesty if you're going to join the Hand. You'll be stationed with nobility, and while many will be like us—minor nobility, simple and reserved—the top dogs will be from the Great Houses. And let me tell you, most of the minor nobility, and certainly all the greater nobility, are far more liberal with those things than we are here in Oakvale."
He clapped Godfrey on the shoulder, still chuckling. "Best you start getting used to it now, eh?"