Dream | Dream SMP

Dream was sitting in front of a stream and washing his clothes. Yes, even maniacs take care of themselves. He had left his axe and bow by a log nearby, and he was wearing only trousers with multiple pockets and a tank top. The mask was still covering his face. He finished, wrung out his hoodie and stood up. He took his weapons and trudged back to his camp, which he had set up in a large animal hole surrounded by bushes.

Dream hung his hoodie there to dry. He gathered firewood, lit a fire and sat down to get warm. He was far from civilization now because he was despised. How to live with the stigma of being a villain?.. Well, it was better not to disappoint people. He wanted to steal Sapnap's enchanted sword. Before that, he was going to rest and come up with escape routes.

It was getting dark. The birds fell silent, and the loud insects woke up. Dream was able to relax. He reached for the fasteners on his mask and was about to take it off before going to sleep when he heard a broken branch. This guy was paranoid, so he immediately stamped out the fire.

"God, don't tell me it's an animal," he muttered to himself, annoyed at his sudden blindness. The sky was overcast, and it was pitch dark. He crouched down, listening.

Dream was sitting in a corner of the tavern, where the air smelled of dampness, fried meat, and cheap ale. His eyes, hidden behind his mask, lazily scanned the room. He knew that he wouldn't be recognized here, as long as he kept his mouth shut and his weapons hidden. In front of him was a mug of ale, which he had barely touched. He was not yet thirsty. His fingers idly tapped the handle of the axe that lay beside him on the bench. A bow and a belt with bags hung on the back of a chair - everything at hand, everything in its place. The tavern was noisy: someone argued over losing at dice, someone boasted of a successful hunt, and in the far corner a dissonant lute strummed. Dream smiled with the corner of his mouth - the place felt something domestic, yet he was bored.

At that moment the door of the tavern opened, letting in a gust of cold wind and a new visitor. Dream tilted his head slightly, watching the newcomer. Who knows, maybe today will be an entertaining day.

The crackle of dry wood and the distant hoot of an owl is the only sound in the clearing. A small campfire dances in the center of the camp, casting long, flickering shadows against the surrounding trees. Dream is sitting perched on a fallen log and holding a long stick over the flames, a roasted thin chicken turning slowly in the heat.

Beside him sits a small, worn flask. He reaches for it with a practiced motion, unscrewing the cap before taking a long, heavy swallow of the alcohol while moving up his mask with another hand. He lets out a quiet, huffed breath. The liquid burns down his throat. Even in this moment of rest, he's keeping his axe and bow near.