Blood dripped to the ground as Grae limped on.

Blood trickled down his muzzle.

Grae remembered very little after killing Heidrich. His eyes were blurry as he staggered back into camp, led by the stink of Sarcer's body frying atop the coals of the dead fire. The kobolds helped him into the wagon. That was the last clear memory.

After that...

Pain took over. Pain and dreams, one rising as the other faded. He dreamed of his dungeonhome and of the farm. In his dreams they were one and the same, the bees buzzing between piles of rotting garbage to collect honey, apples growing from the roots that descended from the ceiling...

He dreamed of the turtles that swam in the core's central chamber, their slow bodies drifting through the water. Of how he and the other tusklings would try to fish for them by dipping their tails into the water, and how more than one of his brothers had lost a tail that way.

He dreamed of green-eyed serpents with scales the color of milk.

He dreamed of being a giant, grass growing slowly over his body until he became a hill.

Sometimes he dreamed...

And sometimes he was awake, stung into consciousness by the terrible pain. His eyes would snap open, but the dream-like quality would remain, making the things that happened before his eyes seem like just another fantasy.

He watched as Larktogue crushed together bitter herbs and bark in a binding pulp of insects, smearing it onto strips of cloth.

As Oriole leaned over him, fearful tying strips of cloth around his wound.

He heard what they said from a long ways away.

The only word he remembered after was 'witch'.

But most of the time, when pain stung Grae awake, all he saw was the dark inside of the carriage. He stared at the grain of the wood and imagined he saw the dungeon's strange creatures in the swirled patterns.

He did not fear.

Grae had already decided not to die.

Long ago, he decided to live for the dungeon's sake, and tend to the empty halls. To be a memory of better time.

A memory of a better time...

That was what people needed.

Without that, dungeonborn and human alike were no better than animals.

No, Grae had already resolved to live.

And even through the worst of the pain, he did not believe he would die like this.

Fear could not shake him as his eyes drifted closed...

Grae Mangefur

You have obtained the title - Strong

Your blood-soaked prowess stands above the world, a crown written in fury. You have slain five worthy foes in a single battle, or claimed this title from the dead. Can be upgraded by obtaining this title five times or obtaining a title of higher tier.

+ Increased strength and resilience.

---

Grae awoke in a field of flowers. They had a curled shape like bells of yellow, and he rose carefully, not wanting to crush them under his body.

The aches and pains were gone. He ran a hand along his arm, feeling where the dagger had ripped open tendon and sinew. The skin was healed. Where the wound had been, instead there was a raised scar-line of green sprouting tiny, white-colored buds, hidden among his fur. He searched across his body and found the same everywhere.

The flowers…

The flowers had stitched him back together.

Already there was an impression of his body printed down in crushed grass and flower stalks. He turned his head left and right, and saw on all sides the blue rise of mountains, wreathed in mists. He was in a verdant meadow in a mountain valley…

And the sun was shining without harming him. It wasn’t the bright, burning star Grae was used to; it didn’t burn his eyes or turn his skin to stone.

The day-star that hung in the sky was honey-colored and mellow, casting golden shadows across the world below.

The air tasted different.

Magic was different.

“I see you’re awake.”

He turned.

There was a small cottage on the peak of the valley, and the door stood open. In the dark of the doorway was a small, dark-haired woman, a carved wooden mask in the shape of an owl’s white face placed over her own. “Come inside.” She wore a peaked and brimless cap of red velvet with veils that hung down to either side of her face.

He sensed no hostility from her. No fear. She had a calm and faintly musical voice, like a river running over smooth stones.

“Where am I? The sun is different…” He shielded his eyes.

“You’re at a leyline. A place where worlds intersect. My magic couldn’t heal your wounds where we were; I took you somewhere with different laws.” She explained as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

But every word left Grae reeling. Other worlds? Different laws?

“I wouldn’t worry about it much.” She said. “You’ll find one world is enough to occupy you for a lifetime.”

“Tell me. If there are other worlds…” Grae was fascinated. “Then are there humans on all of them?”

He could bring the monsters here, where the sun was kind and the grass was green. Where no humans would bother them.

She laughed. It was a delicate sound. “If you think this is a paradise for your people, you’re mistaken. In a few hours these beautiful flowers grew into your wounds and made you whole. In a few days, you’d be nothing but flowers; an ogre-shaped hill among endless fields of marigolds.”

“It’s not just the flowers, either.” She continued. “It’s the magic of this world. It’s sweet at first, intoxicating, but poison. In the right dose it will heal…”

“But you could never survive here for long. Your body would become earth, your mind would become a spirit, you would break apart into your base elements…”

Grae sighed. “I understand.”

“Do you? Good. Too many people think they could run a world away from their problems; I find we carry our problems with us, like turtles with their shells.” She turned and stepped through the door. Looking back, she called, “Come along now. Don’t let the flowers have you.”