Without realizing it, slumber had taken him as he was suddenly ripped from the blissful dreams of a time long gone. The fields of green grass were replaced by grimy walls of pale stone; against his nose, the stomach-churning smell of mold washed away the scent of flowers he dreamed of.
"…Huh…"
"Mornin', sleepyhead."
It was a familiar voice that greeted him, though he couldn't find where it was coming from at first as he blinked a few times, adjusting to the new scenery.
Looking around, he was in a confined space, kept enclosed by steel bars—a prison, of some sort.
Across the cell he saw the source of the voice—though it took a couple more blinks to realize who it was. The young man of a similar age to himself sat there with his arms on his knees with his bare back pressed against the wall, covered in welts and bruises.
"…Gaston?" Bastian quietly called out in surprise.
