Blackfeather Woods Wait, so psych eval isn't a formality?

The ocean called to him next. He did not know the voice that sang on the wind, only that it was inviting him to cross the great expanse of wheat that rolled down from the red rocks; like a carpet, except every tendril was alive and reaching to grasp at him. As he tread along the hillside the earth evened out, except in his mind it was an ever-present undulation. He was made more dizzy beneath the glare of the sun; as there was not a cloud in the sky and his coat was eager to eat up the heat, Hypnos did not fare well in his travel.

He felt like he was on fire. Like his throat was full of gravel and that he choked on it, with every swallow cutting him. He was open-mouth panting by the time he saw the black smudge on the horizon and made way for it. His eyes were half-lidded, his face sagging as he sucked in air that tasted like ash. As he moved he picked up speed and soon enough his mind concocted a reason: that the tendrils of grass were whips of fire snapping at his heels.

The blackness of the forest was suddenly there, forming its way across his vision where it had been summoned. He must have traveled far, but could not remember the journey, as dreams were often incongruent. You were there one moment, somewhere else the next. 

No, but — he was awake. The fire, it was everywhere — No fire, he sighed. As Hypnos looked around he saw only the black spires of trees, the low hedges between them. He was surrounded by woodland that was so intimately familiar to him, because it was —home.

He did not know that Onyx Hollow was far behind him; he did not know how dangerous it would be to be found here, so deep within the woods.