The feeling of depression and aloneness lingered like a Uldaran Howler bug waiting in the shadows of the cave to feed upon her carcass. In the dream, she was cold, freezing cold. Her fingers and toes where dead and black. Frost sparkled on her skin. Purple bruising and dead flesh spread from the frostbitten digits up her hands and feet to her wrist and ankles. She had felt no pain, only dead lifeless stumps that made her certain her hands and feet would be amputated—the kind of certainty with which a person knows their name, rank, and serial number. She was always cold and alone in the dream. So very alone. She shivered despite the thick furs that cocooned her in warmth. The nightmare always left her hollow with the conviction she would spend her life with no hands or feet, deformed and unloved. She remained unmoving, sorting through her emotions. It was only a dream. She was in her bed, under her covers, facing away from her man. He was always warm, as if he had a fusion reactor at his core.
