Pavel lay on his bedroll, kicking and punching foes that existed only in his sleep. Kelestri watched for a moment as the nocturnal battle continued.

"No!" the monk grumbled, his eyes remaining tightly shut, "leave them alone!"

The monk's movements became more and more desparate, his voice pleading with his unseen combatants. Who or whatever he was fighting- it sure looked like he was losing. Kelestri knelt down and nudged the thrashing monk.

"Wake up, Monk," she said, "your dreams are troubled..."

Pavel sat up, startled, and by reflex alone, moved the staff from the floor at his side in a tight arc through the air. Kelestri raised a practiced hand and caught the staff a a few inches from her face. The other hand grabbed Pavel's tunic and shook him awake.

"Whoa there, holy man, " she cautioned, "if you're anxious to smack someone with that fancy stick of yours, I can think of several targets more deserving than I."

Pavel blinked a few times before his eyes would focus on Kelestri's stern gaze. As he realized he had awoken from a dream, he withdrew the staff and apologized.

"I am sorry my friend- it was so....real."

"No need," she said, shaking her head, "this day was enough to give us all nightmares."

"I have not had nightmares about the day I lost my family for many months," the monk confided, "I think the Broken One speaks to me in my dreams."

"Perhaps that obnoxious curry you had for dinner speaks to you in your dreams," Kelestri told him as she rose and turned to leave. Shaking her head, she mumbled over her shoulder, "Get some rest, monk."

Pavel wiped the sweat from his bald pate and thought about the dream. It was the same dream as before- only not. He was standing in his wheat field as he was that fatefull day when the orcs burst from the woods, only it was not Pavel the farmer, but Pavel, Monk of the Yellow Rose. And instead of the scythe he used to cull the grain, his farm-caloused hands held his staff.

The orcs had closed, screaming their warcries and brandishing their horrible, crude, rusted weapons- only these were not the faces of orcs! One was skeletal with red glowing eyes. Another carried the face of Golig the Ur priest, a third wore the black helmet of the doomguard and yet another had the long, flowing locks and piercing eyes of that beautiful temptress from the gate.

One by one Pavel had bested them with staff and fist as he ignored wound after grievous wound until no one stood but him. Exhausted, he had dropped to a knee in a pool of his own blood. Looking across the field toward his home, he expected to see his wife and son lying dead- but it was not so! Instead they stood in a nimbus of holy light and waved a goodbye to him before fading from view.

Pavel looked around his dream to see that the scene had changed. As the light faded, he could see that hundreds of creatures lay around him dead or dying and hundreds more moved quickly to surround him. His companions were scattered about, weary and holding weapons soiled with the blood of countless evil souls. They also readied themselves as the next maleviolent wave swept toward them.

No, this was not the usual nightmare.

It was a sign.

The monk looked upward and spoke toward the ceiling.

"Thank you, Broken One...I know what I must do."

There was silence, but the monk did not expect or require an answer. Rubbing his eyes he realized how tired he was. Kelestri had provided some sound advice, he thought to himself. He lay back down and closed his eyes, hoping for nothing more than dreamless sleep.