Crispin was halfway down the stairs before everything caught up with him; a wave of dizziness crashed over him, and he had to sit down quickly lest he fall the rest of the way into the cavern below. His excitement in finding out more, in peppering Ennea with questions had distracted him from everything else - things like his stomach being furiously empty, his throat being dry and parched. He felt rumpled and foul, suddenly sharply aware that he had been sleeping in the same set of clothing for who knew how long, and that he must have the most hideous case of bed-head known to man.

Ugh.

He slumped forward and buried his head in his hands. But all this was real... really, honestly real. The line of red pinch-marks on his arms attested to that. Somewhere in the darkness below was a weapon - his weapon. The one he'd dreamed about so briefly before waking up and being spit so unceremoniously out of the pod. He'd chosen this. Had he known, at the time, what it would mean?

No. Of course not. But he was here now. Here and raggedy and unwashed and not remotely what he felt such a momentous occasion called for. Just a boy in rumpled clothes, hungry and aching and not noble at all. Hardly a hero. But if he left this place, would they let him come back? Ennea had brought him here right away, so surely this was the next step. The moment of truth, even.

He had to keep going.

With a little sigh, Crispin got to his feet and descended the stairs, more slowly this time. The tiny room at the bottom was... almost a disappointment, in a strange way. He hadn't had much time to build up expectations, but it seemed less grand than it should, somehow. Such a tiny room, lit by a single torch... hardly the kind of setting for receiving a chosen weapon.

And there wasn't anybody else here. "Hello?" Crispin called out, taking a few hesitant steps into the center of the room. "Um, I'm here for my weapon? My name's Crispin, um, I just woke up...?"

His voice echoed against the oddly tiled walls, but nobody responded - or so he thought. After a moment's silence, Crispin slowly became aware of a faint humming all around him, fading in like a radio searching for the proper frequency. He took another step towards one of the walls, and the 'sound' got louder... though it wasn't really something he was hearing with his ears, not really. More something in his gut, in his bones.

The wall was strange, he realized, all tiled with stones the size of his hand, with etchings carved into each stone - etchings of weapons. Swords, spears, quarterstaves, bows, maces, axes, even guns... almost every kind of weapon he could think of was represented on the wall. Hrm. He reached out one hand to tap at a stone with a sword glyph, only to recoil as the thing... sparked at him, or something, like static. "Ow!" His cry echoed briefly, then vanished.

Hm. Eyes narrowed, he scanned the wall, holding that hand out just above the surface of the stones. It was strange, passing over the stones; the humming changed as he moved, from high to low to rumbling to hissing to a half-heard cacophony of voices. None seemed welcoming, though.

"Okay. Okay, think, Crispin, think - what kind of weapon did I dream about..." He tried to remember but the details were fleeting, like any dream. Still, he knew it wasn't a gun, nor a sword or dagger... something long, with heft to it. A staff? Something like that. He kept searching, this time skipping over anything that didn't have a long stave-like component to it. Quarterstaff, pitchfork, pike- and then, with a jolt, his hand passed over a stone marked with the sigil of some sort of spear - no, a glaive. Immediately, the 'sound' in his head changed, the hum dropping low enough to shake his bones, then flowing into a strangely familiar sound.

A yawn.

There you are.

Crispin's eyes widened, and he backed away, though he kept his gaze fixed on that one stone. "Who... who are you?!"

There was no answer; belatedly, Crispin shuffled forward again, holding his hand out once more. As soon as his fingers were in range, a sigh flowed into his mind. I am happy to tell you, if you will stay in one place long enough for the telling.

"Uh, sorry." Crispin looked sheepish. "I'm Crispin."

Crispin. The voice repeated his name in a thoughtful tone, as if tasting it, weighing it. My name is Shaiming. You are... a human.

It was a statement, not a question. Crispin nodded. "Yes, sir. I am."

'Sir', is it? The voice seemed amused. A wholly unnecessary formality, I assure you. The stone began to glow under Crispin's fingers, warming slightly to the touch. 'Shaiming' alone will do. Come, draw me forth.

"Draw you...?" Crispin's brow furrowed in confusion, and he stared at the stone. "Uh, okay. Sure. Hang on a second while I... figure out how to do that..." He tugged at the edges of the stone, trying to dislodge it from the wall. "Just give me... a minute..." Without warning, the stone came free. Crispin stumbled forward, catching the stone in both hands before hitting the wall and sliding to the floor, the stone held safe against his chest.

It is well, Shaiming said, a deep basso rumble of approval that shook Crispin to the core. He stared at the stone, at the bright glyph in its center... and when he looked up again, the tiny cave-room was gone.

All around him was emptiness, blackness spangled with stars - a frozen immensity of nothing. Though it was beautiful beyond words, it was also hostile, uncaring, vast beyond human comprehension. Crispin trembled at that atavistic, primal fear of the unknown, of utter insignificance in the face of the silent and lofty stars. The universe was massive beyond all measure - what was he in comparison? Tiny, helpless, alone-

Not alone.

The dragon came from nowhere, as beautiful and terrible as the stars, native to them in a way no human could ever be. His vast coils settled around Crispin protectively, his mane swaying, wisping oddly in zero-gravity. This is my essence, the heart of my fear. Make no mistake, human - I am a monster. The great head tipped back, mouth opening to show bright and horrifying fangs - and yet there was a glint of good humor in the dragon's eyes. I am a monster, and you are the partner I was promised. So be it. Let us fight well together.

And then, just as suddenly as it had come, the starscape was gone. Crispin took a deep gasping breath as the world resolved itself back into one tiny room, lit by a single torch. He was alone-

-no, not alone. A glaive lay across his lap, though he did not recall picking it up, tipped with an ebony blade with a wicked edge, black as the spaces between stars.

"Fight well," he murmured, and felt the pleased rumble of agreement inside his mind. Their mind; the dragon was there, too, winding coils within his psyche, fitting together perfectly. "So it was you, all along..."

Of course it was. Shaiming sounded smug. Now rise, my Hunter. There is much to be done, and you must fortify yourself, body and soul.

"Right. Right..." Shakily, Crispin got to his feet, trying not to use the glaive like a walking-stick; he had a distinct feeling that Shaiming would not approve. "Food. Yeah. And a room. And everything else." Despite his long sleep, he was tired now, exhausted to the bone. He had very little idea of what to do next, other than stagger into the complex and wait for someone to take pity on him. He didn't know anyone, except for Ennea...

But one thing was for sure: he wasn't alone. And he would never be alone again.