(Note: I wrote this three weeks ago. I’m posting it now to explain my absence from blogging during that time.)
Last night I dreamed I was tasked with killing a she-warg.
I don’t remember how or why. There was no one in the dream to speak to me about my task or anything else. I was alone in a dark, ruined castle. The she-warg was somewhere in the castle, too, hunting me. She would destroy me if I didn’t kill her first. I knew this. I also knew that she was a noble being, a mother, a matriarch. The thought of killing her was a tragedy. And yet I knew that if I didn’t kill this mystic monster, she would remain a danger to me and to many others.
I spent half the night procrastinating the hunt, moving from room to room, hiding place to hiding place, staying one step ahead of the she-warg. I knew this could only go on for so long before a confrontation was inevitable. It would be better for that confrontation to happen on my terms than on hers.
In a ruined, decaying dining hall, I found one of the she-warg’s grown cubs. He was less deadly and more tameable. Because my subconscious apparently operates on RPG principles, I quickly obtained his allegiance and took him with me to face the she-warg. Surely we could defeat her together.
My ally was dead in seconds. The she-warg showed no hesitation and no remorse at killing her own young.
I fled the scene to find the right weapon. I was out of her sight, but she was now in my mind. I felt the weight of her long existence. The pain; the weariness. She was ready to die, and yet she couldn’t die on her own. She wanted, needed, me to face her. She needed death to come in the form of one final hunt.
I found her trail. I could see her from my vantage point. The hunt was set. There was no turning back now. I would defeat the she-warg and reclaim the castle, or we would die together. Either way, her time had come to an end.
Then I woke up.
PS, the surgery went very well, and [knocks on salt and throws a pinch of wood] the recovery is going well, too.