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You're mostly certain you're awake. Well, no amount of pain has worked to wake you up, anyway, and there's been plenty of that - for all the lack of sunlight (there appear to be brown clouds covering the whole sky), or living plants, or running water, there have been plenty of things.
Some of them are just rabbits, or mice. Ordinary. Except they hit you with all the force and fury of an innkeeper whose livelihood burned down in a fight, and you'd rather not look into their eyes because you're afraid you might not be able to look away.
And some of them are stranger. Twisted. Indescribable, almost, because when you look at them the second time they are entirely different than they were before. There are things that look like normal creatures, shoved together, owl's eyes on lion's claws - but those are not the worst. The worst are blurred, shadowy, always just beyond vision, calling your name in screams and whispers and the laughter of a thing that should never have learned how. The worst are waiting, knowing that they will not have to fight you, only wait until you follow their mournful cries.
And you're tired. So, so tired…
So when you wake up, you believe for a minute that they have found you. But nothing ripped out your throat in your sleep.
No.
There are four other people here, with normal eyes - no matter their form, it is the eyes that tell you their nature.
Your wounds are gone.
Far in the distance sits a little house, with crooked statues lining the way to its door.