Dendum shifted the dirt beneath him with his bare hands. Fear kept him from deviating too much from established tradition. A fear born out of wisdom. Anger kept him digging.

It had been almost twenty years since he had helped another through a Zhadu’gno, the rite of passage, and the accompanying vision quest. What he was currently doing could hardly be considered fully in keeping with the practice. However, he also knew that the dreaming ritual could be used for other things in times of great need. He was using it here to hunt.

He patted down the earth with his hands, the humid air and constant rain necessitating the spot he found was high enough to avoid the worst of the damp soil. He collected his wood for his task on the same high ground where an earlier deluge had deposited twigs and limbs in between the rocks and under small ledges. It was the best he could find in the perpetually wet environment of the island.

A sharp crack in the distance caught his attention. There were Iyo on this island as well as Feylings, but he doubted either would come this close to the community he could make out in the distance. They were like Hyenas and Lions, both dangerous hunters, both happier to give each other plentiful room. Staying perfectly still he heard no further commotion and assumed the sound was a branch cracking under the weight of too much wind and water. He continued as the setting sun was not about to wait for him.

He glanced down with satisfaction at his smoothly lined pit, half as deep as he was tall and twice as wide. He quickly slung carved poles together and bound them with vines he had collected, creating a stout skeleton for the wide leaves he layered on top. Time was against him here again as every second wasted meant the pit risked filling with water, but he moved with a practiced skill and soon enough he had a structure that would keep out the rain completely and blended into the surrounding foliage.

Dragging a river stone, heavy and worn flat on two sides, into the center of his makeshift hut he quickly placed the driest wood on top and started the process of making fire. Working carefully from a small beginning, he soon outwitted the dampness and the humid air, and a small spark became a larger flame. He leaned back taking a moment to appreciate and add more fuel to the growing creation. Truly he could have reached out to the spirits for aid, but he knew he would be calling on them all to soon and did not wish to overreach so early in the process.

Stepping out of his structure he looked everything over. The thick wall of leaves appeared sound, letting no water in and any smoke that seeped out was quickly covered by the mist and the rain. It would not do to be disturbed. He glanced up into the darkening sky. The first moon was cresting the horizon, visible through breaking clouds despite the rain. “These are Imeara’s woods and Zelia is our guide” he intoned the ancient mantra of his Blood Line. He hoped it held true tonight.

Stripping out of his armor and baldric he laid everything carefully on one large leaf before covering it with another and placing the entire bundle on a boulder that stuck out of the ground near his hut. He would wear only his cloak, his prayer beads, and his huiteo around his head as was tradition. He glanced once at his companion, perched watchfully on a nearby tree, who appeared curious. He knew if nothing else he would have warning if something dangerous came too close. Whether or not that would be enough to arouse him from the coming journey he couldn’t tell.

Immediately upon entering the hut he was confronted by the thick smoke and growing heat, made even worse by the thick pelts draped on his cloak. That however was part of the process. His mind briefly considered the dangers around him, floods, beasts, and worse things in the dark. Possibly all the generations of his ancestry had been confronted with the same concerns but persevered. Both hunted and hunter. He pushed such thoughts aside.

He opened himself up completely to the land. The process would be long. He held a bowl pungent herbal mixture in one hand and a green bottle of whiskey in the other. He drank the contents of the bowl and set it aside waiting for it to take effect. The whiskey, probably the last bottle sold by the imitation Greth, he would not drink. It served only to focus his mind. He would not eat or drink for as long as the process took from this point on.

“Dream Stalker” he muttered with contempt.
“The Pashtal-Elf and whatever is with him are not the only creatures who know about visions”

Now he called upon the spirits….