Chapter I Redux

I made a few differences in the beginning: the dream, of course, and dropped the back story.

"Ered'nash ban galar!"
Mist, thick and dark. Like smoke, heavy black smoke from a burning building.
A house, burning. There, a painting of brightly colored elven warships, the gleaming wooden masts curling in the heat, the painted hull bursting into flame from the hot air.
Flesh. Was that flesh burning? Yes, there in the corner, a blackened and charred form, curled up like a sleeping child. A closer look, the face contorted into a scream of pain. Or was it terror?
A scream, faint, distant. Coming from upstairs. It sounded like a child.
Up the wooden steps, dozens of steps, more than should be there, taking forever to reach the top. On the landing, a large lump under a blanket, almost too heavy to remove. Jessica, sweet Jessica, her eyes closed, peaceful, unaware of the spreading danger.
More stairs, endless stairs. There, little Pamela, screaming and crying. But she's not there anymore, not really. Fading, like a shadow, like a memory...
The mist, still thick and dark, but cool now. Damp, like fog at the beginning of spring. And that voice again.
"Manakh sheek-thrish!"
Growling, snarling, from the shadows just out of sight. Pinpoints of light, like eyes, moving closer. They are eyes, small and ominous. And just below them, a gleam, deep and red. Blood, dripping from ghostly white fangs. They move closer and closer. Hot breath, burning skin as the damp mist cools it.
And the voice. Always the voice.
"Belanora mordanos nenaar ila mornu farlos kada!”
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Nicholas' eyes opened.
He was breathing heavily, and he could feel sweat on his forehead. His hands felt cold, but his body was hot. He pulled his blanket off and swung his legs out of bed. Resting his elbows on his knees, Nicholas covered his face with his hands.
It was that dream again. The last time he’d had it was on the way to Stormwind, more than a week ago. It always left him in a cold and hot sweat, and always left him afraid. Of what, Nicholas couldn’t exactly say. Not death- that fear had left him long ago. And it wasn’t pain, either- he had been trained to withstand copious amounts of pain. So…what, then?
Nicholas Redpath raised his head from his hands. The light of dawn was starting to creep in through the window. Moisture on the glass told Nicholas it was chilly outside. He got up from the bed and walked into the next room, where there was a washbasin and a tub. Trelayne, the innkeeper, had filled both with fresh water. Steam rising from both told Nicholas she had been in here only minutes before.
He undressed and climbed into the tub, his muscles and body slightly tight from the night’s sleep. The steaming water relaxed him almost immediately, and he rested his head back on the lip of the tub, breathing in the steam. He didn’t move, but replayed the dream in his head over and over.
The burning house had been familiar, as had the people inside. The charred body, he didn’t know, but the house belonged to his uncle Joseph. The unconscious person on the landing was his cousin, Jessica, but he didn’t know why she was sleeping through such chaos. The little girl on the upper floor was his other cousin Pamela, crying and terrified. Perhaps the charred body below belonged to his aunt Sarah.
Or even his own mother. But she hadn’t died in a fire. So it couldn't have been her...could it? She had been murdered. Cut down by mindless monsters, her husband only feet away, but powerless to stop it.
That was so long ago, or so it seemed. But he didn’t think much about it anymore. Not that he forgot or had stopped caring.
Nicholas broke out of his deep thoughts, realizing with a slight smile that his skin had started to wrinkle from the hot bathwater. He climbed out, got dressed, and headed downstairs to see if he could scrounge up some breakfast.
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Downstairs, a roaring fire warmed the inn's main hall. All but one of the tables were empty, the one occupied by two men who looked like they'd hit the ale too hard the night previous. Hann, the barkeep, was washing and polishing mugs and steins from the night's business. Chef Grual was busy chopping meat and vegetables- Nicholas caught a strong whiff of fresh sliced onions as he came down off the stairs. He sat at a table by one of the windows, through which the day's light crept in. Almost immediately a barmaid sidled up to the table, tray and towl in hand.
"Good morning, milord," she said in a soft and sweet voice. Nicholas looked up at her. She was young and very pretty, with reddish brown hair falling onto her shoulders. Her eyes were a deep green and she had a pleasant smile.
"Mornin'," he replied back.
"I don't remember you from last evening," the maid asked with a look of curiosity.
"Ah, I got in late. Figured I had a good bit of luck to find a room at that hour," Nicholas said, returning the girl's smile.
"Well, the way things are now in this town, there'll always be a room for anyone who's looking," she said with a slight sigh.
"What do you mean," Nicholas inquired.
"The town's getting emptier every week. Only a few thousand left, many of those from Raven Hill."
"What happened?"
The girl gave him a grave look. "That's a story that takes more time than I have to tell. You'll find out soon, if you talk to enough people. What brings you to Darkshire anyway, if you don't mind me asking?"
"I came to find an old friend. He stopped writing some time ago and I wanted to make sure everything is okay."
"Who is he? I might know him," the girl offered.
"His name is Sven. Sven Yorgen. We knew each other in the war."
The girl chewed her lip as she mulled over the name. "Sounds a bit familiar. Tell you what- give me twenty minutes to finish my work and I'll take you to someone who would know about him."
"That would be great, thank you," Nicholas said. That would save him a day's worth of searching and inquiring.
"My pleasure." The smile was back. "What's your name, stranger?"
"Nicholas. Nicholas Redpath," he answered.
"My name is Alira," she said with a slight bow. "Be back in a bit."