Groth bolted upright and scrambled back until a rough, stone wall pressed coldly against his shoulder blades. Eyes wide, he stared at the man he once called enemy, more youthful now but still the same.

Athastar's golden brows furrowed comically over his brown eyes as he laughed, "What, were you expecting Norilei?"

Groth let his breath out all at once, unaware that he had been holding it. His muscles were taut with nervousness--no soreness from battle, no aches from age, and even that persistent tremor from his enemy's failed assassination attempt through poison was gone. Groth was but a youthful man, hale and hearty as he once had been.

"Can't imagine why, though," Athastar went on with a snort. "Everyone knows I'm the pretty one."

Groth met his gaze with a frown. "Huh?"

"I mean, Nori's not not pretty, and you're a handsome lad yourself, but I come with looks and charm. And quite a bounty of wit, if I do say so myself..."

Groth just stared at him, unable to shake from his mind the notion that Athastar should be holding a sword to his throat.

Athastar's smile finally began to dim, and concern twinkled in his dark eyes. "Are you alright?" He reached out a gloved hand towards Groth's face, and Groth flinched back. Athastar froze, his smile vanishing completely as his brows bowed upwards with worry. "What's gotten into you, man?"

Groth blinked hard, and then he blinked again. What had gotten into him? He scrubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes, unable to fathom why he was so tense around his old friend. Or... enemy...? Groth lowered his hands again and squinted at Athastar. His broad arms, swordsman's arms; wavy hair, inherited from his mother; embroidered tunic, a nobleman garb--all of it was familiar to Groth, but not in the way it should have been. Although at that moment, he could not say exactly how it should have been.

Swallowing once, Groth said in a soft voice, "I... I think I just had the strangest dream..."

He glanced briefly at his surroundings, the shadowed interior of what clearly was a Nogastian church. The stone walls were ribbed with pillars of wood, studded with rich jewels, and the altar near which they had slept was fashioned out of the skull of a mammotaur. An inexplicable "memory" of eradicating the half-man giants flashed through his mind, but just as suddenly, it began to fade, as does a dream when one tries to focus on it.

"Such a strange dream," Groth whispered to himself, and he rubbed his eyes again. Blinking the blurriness away, he met Athastar's gaze once more. His old friend--yes, he knew this man as his friend, inseparable from boyhood--frowned at him in concern. After a moment, however, the side of his mouth pinched into a smirk, and the wrinkles in his forehead slackened into his usual mirth.

"Well, you're back with us in this world, so shake it off, eh? We've got a terrible dragon to slay."

Groth looked up sharply, but Athastar was already turning to sort their gear into their packs. Sighing, Groth shook the last vestige of the dream from his mind and clambered to his feet to help his friend.