I think this is what I get for reading "The Crystal Cave" before falling asleep.
I was a warrior in a fantasy setting. I may have been an Elf, but in any case I was the "strange foreigner" who fought well, and who the others thought was on their side, and probably was, but there was a hint of mistrust in all of our dealings.
We fighters were practicing before the Queen, who watched us from her throne. She was a classic pulp fantasy Amazon Queen: She wore golden breast cups, a golden tiara/headband that came to a single point over her forehead (and which kept her long, straight dark hair out of her face) , knee-high boots, and a long gold lamé cape. (I've just realized writing this that she was a gilt version of Linda Carter from Wonder Woman.) A shadowy, grey-haired adviser hovered behind the shade of her blocky throne. The room was dark, lit by flame (torches? lamps?), which made curtains hanging waves of shadow and flickering yellow light.
I fought with a kind of thin, light sword and dagger. I think I wore padded leather as armor. My opponent was much larger and wore chain. When I was in the right frame of mind, I could move much faster than everyone else, so I was able to dance around and touch him multiple times with the tip of my sword.
Then, somewhere else in the dankly dark of the fantasy world, a pink skulled hulk awoke. One moment the dream perspective focused on his sleeping/dead face, the next his eyes snapped open and he lumbered from his resting place. I'm not sure if it was Frankenstein's Monster, Death, or a fantasy version of the space ghost which haunted an airport in a 1969 Scooby-Doo cartoon (although, now that I think more on it, he was sleeping upright, like a Borg). He set off for the court of our Queen.
Meanwhile, I was facing off another opponent. The tourney marshal was telling us to get ready. I held my sword out and pointed down, and began the mental discipline which would make me one with my sword and lightning fast. My opponent saw the look on my face and accused me of using magic to win the match. A brief discussion of the rules followed, and the Queen determined mental focus or state of mind was not a magic spell.
We got wind of Pink Skull's approach. He actually hadn't done anything bad, yet, and there was a sense that we might be able to parlay with him. I stepped away from the combat circle and looked down the halls, which had dream-transformed into a kind of junky dark alley. I held my sword ready and called out for Pink Skull (I used a different, suitably impressive fantasy name in the dream) to show himself.
I could see the yellow glow of his approach, and then he was on us. He didn't kill my opponent, but instead of practice touches, he sliced him. I got sliced, too. When I intervened on my opponents behalf, Pink Skull sliced me hard--it hurt a lot. Then he sliced the backs of my hands, slowly and one at a time. Which also hurt a lot.
And then I woke up, and my hands were sore in real life. I wish I could blame the weather for the way they ache, but I think it's supposed to be a clear sky today (cloudy tomorrow). Maybe they got too cold. Maybe I should call this dream, "Gawain and the Arthritis Knight."