Bows in their hands, the Alvon hunters were quiet as they stalked towards the armored Imperial Soldiers gathering around a campfire. Filthy humans. Fire should not look blue on this side of the galaxy, but well, humans and their love for all things flashy and unnatural.

This group of soldiers had been terrorizing the desolate star system for quite some time now, stalking closer and closer to the asteroid where the Avarrik Tribe was hiding. No one knew why the Imperial Soldiers were sailing through this particular starcluster, but their presence meant trouble and danger for the two Dreamers of the Tribe — that meant Mender Ashna and Serran himself.

And so, the Mender had no choice but to send seven of their best hunters to eliminate the threat.

As a healer, Serran insisted on going along too, to make sure all hunters made it back safely to their Tribe. He knew the risk — if he was captured, their Tribe would be down a Mage, and the Universe a Dreamer. But Serran had made his point known. If they lost seven of their best hunters, the Tribe would be at a much higher risk from the Imperial Soldiers.

One thing that Serran knew for sure, the Solaris Imperium loathed them, the Alvons. Space elves, the humans called them. Or Flatfoots, depending how deep in the hatred level they were. It didn’t matter which tribe one Alvon came from. For humans, they were all the same. Mages, Dreamers — Betrayers.

Here was the thing.

Dreams became rare when the God of All Dreams turned mad from HIS own Dreams and killed all the other Deities. HE was now recognized as the God of Betrayal, and most beings in the Universe slowly lost their ability to Dream. Those who could Dream still, well… most of them wouldn’t tell anyone that they could.

Here was another thing, though: The God of All Dreams was an Alvon. HIS name was quite forgotten, but everyone would not forget that one particular fact any time soon. Perhaps the Imperium’s hatred of all Alvons was not quite misplaced after all.

—

The moon this particular group of Imperial Soldiers was staying on had been deserted for years. There was a prosperous city on that moon, once, before the Imperium razed it down to the ground. Not sure why, but most likely what they would have called “Conflicts of interest”. Now, nature had reclaimed what once was nearly barren.

The foliage provided the hunters enough cover to hide as they waited, silent and deadly. There were seven of them, plus Serran, against five Imperial Soldiers. Each hunter carried a bow and a quiver filled with electric arrows, strong enough to kill a Narg, and Serran a magical staff made out of a piece of Dreamtouched asteroid. Each soldier carried a blaster gun that gleamed under the moonlight, just like their armor did.

Adri, the leader of the hunters, gave the signal for them to stay. Down below, one of the soldiers dragged something to the center of the camp — or rather, someone. Serran let out a quiet gasp as the soldier sidestepped, allowing him to see the unlucky being the soldiers had caught.

Said being was an Alvon. His head was uncovered and his clothing ragged. For a brief moment, Serran wondered uncertainly what an Alvon was doing in this part of the starcluster. He was not one of the Tribesmen. That was until Serran saw the broken staff that the soldiers threw in front of him.

A Dreamer, Serran realized, and he was injured.

Blood stained his clothes, but the Dreamer seemed to pay little attention to it. Even from this distance, Serran could see the defiant expression the Dreamer displayed, teeth baring and eyes glowering with resolve. The soldiers forced him to his knees, yet he still struggled in their grasp. In the end, one of the soldiers blasted him with their electric-infused glove, causing him to keel over. Pained noises escaped him as sparks danced across his body.

Serran knew, with great familiarity, what would happen to a Dreamer at the hand of Imperial Soldiers. They would either be killed or made Grounded.

In that moment, something ached within Serran, terribly.

He wanted to help the Dreamer. He had to help him.

Adri seemed to know what he was thinking, and he gave him the subtlest shake of his head. Serran gestured madly at the wounded Dreamer in return. That was one of their Kin! The soldiers would, without a slightest doubt, do something terrible to him!

But Adri was undeterred. They came for the soldiers. That was their only order.

One of the Imperial Soldiers stalked around the wounded Dreamer, like a hungry predator would stalk its cornered prey. The Dreamer still glared at the soldiers, still defiant despite the pain written all over his face. That was until one of the soldiers brought out a terrible, terrible tool from his vambrace.

Serran knew what it was. He knew what it was for.

No, Serran thought. Not on his watch.

With a flick of his staff, the soldier was set ablaze as if he was nothing more than a firewood. The remaining soldiers shouted in surprise, before pointing their blaster guns to their surroundings.

Adri sighed, but waited no time to toss a handful of smoke bombs toward the soldiers. The rest of the hunters moved in the confusion, a barrage of sparking arrows rained down upon the soldiers. All but one fell to the ground, dead. The last soldier, who was still holding the wounded Dreamer by the neck, saw them closing into him as smoke thinned.

With a raging cry, he too took the thing out of his vambrace and plunged it into the Dreamer’s head with deadly precision.

“NO!!” Serran shouted as he weaved his spells and made the air around the soldier to explode. The soldier’s body was compressed by its own armor in a sickening, yet satisfying crunch, before it landed on the forest floor, terribly mangled and still.

The silence that followed was deafening, but not for long. While the hunters ransacked the encampment, Serran fell to his knees by the wounded Dreamer. He was still breathing raggedly, but his eyes were vacant. Sparks danced across his skin from that point where his head connected to his neck — for the Alvons, that was where their temporal lobe was located.

Serran knew he had to work fast.

This was the crudest way to Ground a Dreamer, by messing with their temporal lobe using a small electric pike. It instantly severed a Dreamer’s connection to the Dreamvoid, where all Dreams originated, but it also messed up with the entire temporal lobe’s ability to process and store memories. Most Dreamers who were Grounded this way would be afflicted with long-term memory loss and epilepsy, among many other terrible things.

“We need to bring him back to our Tribe”, Serran told Adri, just as he began weaving his healing spells.

“The Rounds already caught him once. What if he leads them back to our Tribe?” Adri argued.

“Does he look like he can tip them off?!” Serran cried out in disbelief, gesturing wildly at the Dreamer’s vacant eyes.

“They could be putting a tracker on him!” Adri countered, before his expression softened. “We can give him a swift death. That’s the only thing we can do for him.”

“You will not touch him”, Serran growled. “I can save him.”

“Serran…” Adri sighed.

“He’s one of our Kin!” Serran hissed. “We’re bringing him back to our Tribe.”

Adri was quiet for a moment. Something like understanding flashed in his eyes, before he let out a great sigh. “Fine. But I will tell Mender Ashna about it. And you will carry him on your own.”

That was good enough for him.

Once the hunters were done ransacking the encampment, Serran finished his healing spells, making sure that the fragile connection to the Dreamvoid the Dreamer had was still, well… connected. He then weaved another spell to make the wounded Dreamer lighter. The wounded Dreamer was taller than Serran, but Serran was stockier. He carried the Dreamer with relative ease back to their Sailer.