It was a dark sea. It had to be. His body was wrapped in a frigid and unforgiving chill that saturated him to the bone. At first, it seemed as if he could breathe, though the longer the sensation endured, so too did it become apparent that he was drowning. Each and every inhale only brought in that numbing panic and water. His chest seared, as if only fire existed in the cage formed by ivory ribs. Despite it, he opened his mouth to scream, his hands reaching upward, clawing against the formless tide, though the sensation didn't match that of swimming. There was no light. There was no sun or moon gently touching the surface to show him the way out. There was only this debilitating void, this nothingness that threatened to overwhelm him all together. All it gave him in return for his efforts was a further decent to madness. He stared, wide-eyed into the abyssal void, waiting for it to finally all end.

But it didn't. Instead, there started to be shapes in the dark. Not quite sight, more of a sensation. Simply being aware that they were present. Prisons. Warped bubbles that cradled them. Faces flashed beyond his eye lids as he clenched his lashes shut, trying to close out the disturbing happening. It was a nightmare. It was a nightmare. It was a nightmare! That's all it was! That's all it ever would be. He just had to wake up. Wake up! they were getting closer, countenances illuminated only by knowing they were in the pitch with him. Wake up! Wake UP!

He jerked free of his pillow, a frantic gasp drawing in his breath as wide, wild eyes frantically darted to and fro within the familiar span of his room. He was a mess of cold sweat and shaking hands as he ran them up over his face, through his hair as he tried to anchor himself. It took him a moment, even after he swung his legs over the edge of his bed before he would trust himself not to be sick when he stood. Gods, he hated that nightmare. He'd had it ever since he could remember from time to time, but as of late, he felt as if he endured it every night, and with each one he was chained to it longer, he saw more. But he had to shake it off. He had a job today.

The talk of a draft in the further country and the discovery of the lands to the north had spurred people to a further level of madness. More and more jobs flew into the doors, and now more times than not, only the secretary was to be found within the building, amid a seemingly always growing pile of papers. Requests, settlements, propositions. The bargaining for some shred of protection was alight for even the simplest of errands. Now, even those outside of the luxury of the capitol were beginning to seek them out, scouring coins together in an effort to protect children as they sought a safe haven for them to dwell in.

His recent task was the guard of a young noble woman as she attended her lessons. School was a place he was never fortunate enough to be able to attend. Though the building didn't make him feel as though this was an opportunity that he truly missed out on. After all, mathematics and writing lessons wouldn't help him in handling a sword. 'Folk already know where they're a goin'' his father had often said when his mother had suggested such a thing as reading could prove useful to him, 'he just has to get 'em there.' Perhaps it was just because this was a prestigious university that only the very wealthy could afford to attend, but it felt far too stuff and constraining within the halls.

He remained near the back wall, close to the public entrance of the amphitheater style assembly hall. Dark eyes only moving from his idle point of staring to the door near the stage where the instructor would enter. There was something.... compulsively familiar about the man. Umber attention narrowed, dark honey sights picking at the appearance. He was neatly dressed, his hair tidy and well cared for. Alistair couldn't ever recall crossing paths with him, in the street or otherwise, breeding confusion within the back of his cerebral prison. Perhaps the sense of deja vu emerged from a sketch or something from the general building of Reigner Security.

He crossed his arms, his weight shifting faintly as he leaned the back of his shoulders against the wall, settling in for the lecture. All the while, he ticked through his memories, trying to find where he had crossed paths with this man before.

It should have been like any other day.  Feigndail Pierrat would diligently - or perhaps foolishly - burn the midnight oil until the first rays of inevitable dawn wormed through the holes of boarded windows.  He’d yaw due to persistent mortal customs rather than truly feeling tired.  A sensation that was lost to him the moment he’d sprouted fangs.  Limber arms would raise above his head, every sinew in his upper body stretching out their pent-up tensions roused by hours of idle stagnation.  Feigndail leaned back in the chair rooted at his desk.  Piles of papers, numerous sketchings, and a tower of books lined its sturdy oak surface in a scattered mess.  Papers were strewn hither and far; books lay open, their words exposed to the untrained eye.  Each dusty tome offered enlightenment towards his current lecture - a course about Klewythian mana. There weren’t many who found interest in the subject.  Most were preoccupied with the idea of launching fireballs on day one or destroying the entire nation with a hurricane.  When they learned that there was more to magic than simple ignition or a steady gale, he wouldn’t see their faces again.  It was better this way.  He had little patience for the simple folks of Lavalles.  When she had stayed, he was pleasantly surprised.  Few students grew curious and wanted to understand mana and how it affected our world.  How there was a delicate balance that could be disturbed with one wrong incantation.  Just like yesterday, it should have been a simple lesson.  He had his notes sprawled against the podium.  He had the eager eyes and ready ears starving for his voice, his direction.  It should have been like any other day. It wasn’t. Feigndail did his best to ignore that familiar string, to play blind to the golden thread tethering him to the man in the back.  He did everything in his power not to look at him lest his eyes betray that racing hymn in his chest.  The flat of his palms seemed heavy with sweat, his brow glistening with the growing droplets.  His voice tried its best not to betray his inner calamity.  He went on with the lesson, hands subtly shaking, and his mouth joyous and eager when the last of it was over. Those damned eyes betrayed him.  They dared a glance, a quick look, and it made him want to flee into the tiniest hole he could find.  Feigndail hurriedly gathered his things and tossed them - carelessly, mind you - into his satchel and attempted to flee through the closest door he could find.  Today wasn’t like any other day.  Today was the day he’d found Alistair’s reincarnation.

He half listened to the lecture at hand, the proper preparations and consumption of arcane reserves, the way in which to perfectly balance the forces that would be used to bring to life the caster's desired effects. Such things were not wholly lost upon him, though to claim it held vast interest or use to him would also fall short of the truth. Since cursed with this in between existence, he knew he had more.... Depth and aptitude for spellcasting, but it was still not something he dabbled in readily. The only time he had incited such a force had been the shameful lapses of his own control and character encroached upon by this damnable thirst he could no longer rid himself of. While his aggression hadn't resulted in death and he'd been hastily subdued by the others close at hand, it hadn't changed the fact that he had tried his best to bring down someone who had once upon a time been a close comrade. It had seen the seeds of the fissure between he and the rest of his guild as well, one he couldn't decide if he remained on the opposite side of due to his fellows' distrust or his own self loathing reigning him in from beginning anew and accepting the forgiveness he was assured was present.

So he knew better than some when someone avoided something out of guilt, and that sensation was sickeningly thick upon the air between he and this man - one he could not bring a recollection of despite how hard he tried. The poor gent acted like he owed him money. Perhaps it was merely a case of mistaken identity. After all there was a considerable distance between them and the large breadth of his hat did serve to conceal the majority of his countenance from view. These were the things he told himself to keep from collapsing to darker conclusions - ones that he was starting to find more realistic.

Thoughts that were scattered the moment that the lecture came to an abrupt end with the instructor quickly tossing his things in a bag and making to leave. The action was hastily followed by a full glance in his direction. Something there in his face made the mercenary stand at full attention, dragging his spine away from his repose. It was most certainly an avoidance tactic directed at him, and the malicious inclinations that came with that sparked a blight of animosity within him. He was certain that he'd never seen the man before, but being familiar to him only drug his inclinations to the horrors his siblings had faced in the end of their lives. It was a conclusion he hadn't readily jumped to and even now there was a horrid chill that ate its way up his spine. Was he an associate of his now estranged step-mother? Was he one of those responsible for the blood of his brothers and sisters?

He was already making his way through the thin crowd, one becoming even smaller in the moments following the lesson's conclusion. His thoughts were snared entirely upon the figure that currently made its best attempt to escape. Perhaps his charge may have tried to flag him down, but if she had, it went unnoticed.

"Excuse me!" He called, following through the portal the man had exited from. Umber gaze would flicker around the surroundings, trying to pinpoint where he had scurried off to.