Your vision comes into focus at the bottom of old concrete steps leading up to a small museum in Reverie.
Sunset was hours ago, and the world feels at peace. The only things disturbing the night are the sounds of crickets singing and nocturnal animals waking to embark on their evening routines. Your consciousness drifts towards the front door, which has been left slightly ajar. There are no lights beyond the threshold, and the windows are equally dark. Your mind moves inside the building, and your vision adjusts to the gloom of the interior.
Then, you hear the faint sound of metal scraping against stone in the distance.
You navigate through exhibits showcasing historical objects—artifacts whose power has long diminished—and other treasures from a bygone era. The scraping sound grows louder.
As you approach what seems to be the source, you notice the security modules ahead of the next room emitting smoke and covered in black, arcing patterns.
Closing the distance, the noise abruptly ceases, replaced by a sing-song whistling tune. Upon entering the exhibit, the source of the disturbance becomes clear: a figure dressed in a black cloak is hunched over a spot on the ground in front of an empty pedestal. The moment your gaze falls upon them, the whistling stops, and the figure freezes. You hear a small amount of rustling from their direction, then suddenly the entire scene is engulfed in a plume of smoke. Your vision is completely obscured, and you hear the sound of shattering glass.~
Then, you hear the faint sound of metal scraping against stone in the distance.
You navigate through exhibits showcasing historical objects—artifacts whose power has long diminished—and other treasures from a bygone era. The scraping sound grows louder.
As you approach what seems to be the source, you notice the security modules ahead of the next room emitting smoke and covered in black, arcing patterns.
Closing the distance, the noise abruptly ceases, replaced by a sing-song whistling tune. Upon entering the exhibit, the source of the disturbance becomes clear: a figure dressed in a black cloak is hunched over a spot on the ground in front of an empty pedestal. The moment your gaze falls upon them, the whistling stops, and the figure freezes. You hear a small amount of rustling from their direction, then suddenly the entire scene is engulfed in a plume of smoke. Your vision is completely obscured, and you hear the sound of shattering glass.~
Suddenly you’re sitting in the front seat of an old burned out pickup truck.
Despite the ravages of time and fire, its rounded body lines and elegant flair remain intact. The split windshield is cracked on the driver's side, and the passenger side glass is missing entirely. Miraculously, or perhaps due to some forgotten Leper modification, the dash lights flicker to life, and the radio dial spins as if searching for a channel. It settles on one just as a voice, eerily familiar to you, begins to speak.
“Hellooo, new and old listeners! This is, as always, d-d-d-DJ Steelhand! Now, before we get our boogie down again, we've got some important daily updates for y’all this morning."
"First, there have been several reports of an impromptu firework show near New Cabrillo a couple of days ago. Just a harmless light show as the sun sank below the horizon. Who knows where the fireworks came from, but hopefully, their supplier has some more for us."
"For some of our more distant listeners, I suggest you keep an ear and maybe a gun out for some vagabonds destroying the radio towers. Someone has decided to lodge a complaint about our broadcast—man, they must really hate our music tastes!"
"And for all those road-weary dreamers out there, just remember we will always be your company on the waves.”
The first song starts playing just as the Soulforge vision begins to pull away from the desert. You can't quite catch the lyrics, but they feel eerily familiar, stirring an uncomfortable sense of recognition in the pit of your stomach.
-------
The vision shifts to a library, silent except for the rhythmic thud of wood against stone. An ancient, commanding presence enters your field of view as Odin strides along a long corridor, purposefully, albeit slowly. Like shadows following in his footsteps, he is flanked by two trusted advisors from the days of yore. The passage walls are lined with schematics of ancient war machines from Paradiso and maps of places long consumed by a planet in its death throes.
Your presence falls into step behind them, unseen as always, and you can hear them in discussion.
“So, the Dreamwalkers have finally submitted their inquiries about the past?” Odin prods the older of the two companions, a man of similar build whom one might easily mistake for the All-Father in the right disguise.
Ullr lists off the questions uninterrupted until, as though seized by a thought, Odin halts and the thudding sound stops. Contemplative, he turns. “If I understand you correctly, the Dreamwalkers wish to retrieve our lost relics for us.” He taps his chin, thinking. "You both know I was certain we would be drawn into war again. And yet, here we are, having allied ourselves with them."
The other advisor chimed in, “In the hopes we may all see another dawn, All-Father. Lit by progress, even, rather than cowardice,” Skadi said. You get the impression this is a sentiment often repeated between them.
Odin nodded, turning to a wall of books, scrolls, and oddly shaped artifacts beside him. These were in remarkably better condition and seemed ancient and out of place. “Very well. We shall provide them with whatever information we can." Odin reaches out and places a hand on one of the books—with a wooden cover and emblazoned with the carving of a tree—as though comforting an old friend. "A pauper's gem of their former glory.”
He watched out of the corner of his eye as the other two Vanir disappeared into the stacks to prepare whatever answers they could give before pulling a stone slate out of an unmarked niche in the wall. The slate activated at his touch, lines of light illuminating nearly invisible lines in the stone and revealing part of a map of the Dreaming as he once knew it. A single glowing symbol was marked in the center of the slate. As he followed the light, his gaze shifted from the map to the ring on his hand. For a moment, alone in the heart of the last stronghold of the Vanir, his age truly showed. “Perhaps, my friend… perhaps this is what you always meant when you said I would find a new family.”~
“Hellooo, new and old listeners! This is, as always, d-d-d-DJ Steelhand! Now, before we get our boogie down again, we've got some important daily updates for y’all this morning."
"First, there have been several reports of an impromptu firework show near New Cabrillo a couple of days ago. Just a harmless light show as the sun sank below the horizon. Who knows where the fireworks came from, but hopefully, their supplier has some more for us."
"For some of our more distant listeners, I suggest you keep an ear and maybe a gun out for some vagabonds destroying the radio towers. Someone has decided to lodge a complaint about our broadcast—man, they must really hate our music tastes!"
"And for all those road-weary dreamers out there, just remember we will always be your company on the waves.”
The first song starts playing just as the Soulforge vision begins to pull away from the desert. You can't quite catch the lyrics, but they feel eerily familiar, stirring an uncomfortable sense of recognition in the pit of your stomach.
-------
The vision shifts to a library, silent except for the rhythmic thud of wood against stone. An ancient, commanding presence enters your field of view as Odin strides along a long corridor, purposefully, albeit slowly. Like shadows following in his footsteps, he is flanked by two trusted advisors from the days of yore. The passage walls are lined with schematics of ancient war machines from Paradiso and maps of places long consumed by a planet in its death throes.
Your presence falls into step behind them, unseen as always, and you can hear them in discussion.
“So, the Dreamwalkers have finally submitted their inquiries about the past?” Odin prods the older of the two companions, a man of similar build whom one might easily mistake for the All-Father in the right disguise.
Ullr lists off the questions uninterrupted until, as though seized by a thought, Odin halts and the thudding sound stops. Contemplative, he turns. “If I understand you correctly, the Dreamwalkers wish to retrieve our lost relics for us.” He taps his chin, thinking. "You both know I was certain we would be drawn into war again. And yet, here we are, having allied ourselves with them."
The other advisor chimed in, “In the hopes we may all see another dawn, All-Father. Lit by progress, even, rather than cowardice,” Skadi said. You get the impression this is a sentiment often repeated between them.
Odin nodded, turning to a wall of books, scrolls, and oddly shaped artifacts beside him. These were in remarkably better condition and seemed ancient and out of place. “Very well. We shall provide them with whatever information we can." Odin reaches out and places a hand on one of the books—with a wooden cover and emblazoned with the carving of a tree—as though comforting an old friend. "A pauper's gem of their former glory.”
He watched out of the corner of his eye as the other two Vanir disappeared into the stacks to prepare whatever answers they could give before pulling a stone slate out of an unmarked niche in the wall. The slate activated at his touch, lines of light illuminating nearly invisible lines in the stone and revealing part of a map of the Dreaming as he once knew it. A single glowing symbol was marked in the center of the slate. As he followed the light, his gaze shifted from the map to the ring on his hand. For a moment, alone in the heart of the last stronghold of the Vanir, his age truly showed. “Perhaps, my friend… perhaps this is what you always meant when you said I would find a new family.”~
Thrown across the vast expanse of the Dreaming, your focus settles on a forest slowly rising from the mists.
Dark trees and a thick canopy overhead prevent almost any moonlight from filtering through, leaving only the sound of the wind rustling the branches. The vision slowly drifts through the woods, an eerie sense of calm washing over you.
Then, your ears are filled with the sound of cracking metal and the hum of strange magic. In a small clearing ahead, a crack forms in the world, a sickly blue light piercing the thin line as it stretches wider and wider. The crack shatters again, creating more lines and breaks in the wall of reality. The humming sound intensifies, and as it reaches a crescendo, the cracks explode, sending shards of reality scattering across the forest floor and filling your vision with a blinding light of green and blue.
The first thing you hear following this event is the sound of rushing wind as the walls of reality drift back together. However, in the fading light of whatever was beyond the wall, a silhouette takes shape. Their details are obscured, as if you—or rather, this world—should not see whatever this creature is. Yet, it begins to slowly step across the clearing and into the forest. The featureless being turns what should be its head on a swivel, as if it is taking in the surroundings, searching for something unseen. Suddenly, two bright eyes turn towards you, directly staring through the "presence" of the vision. A large, toothy grin emerges where their mouth should be, the rest of their being still appearing to you like television static. Their voice, layered on top of itself like a chorus beyond the confines of our universe, echoes as they turn back towards the woods and begin to move with a newfound purpose.
"This place. It feels like…home."
Then, your ears are filled with the sound of cracking metal and the hum of strange magic. In a small clearing ahead, a crack forms in the world, a sickly blue light piercing the thin line as it stretches wider and wider. The crack shatters again, creating more lines and breaks in the wall of reality. The humming sound intensifies, and as it reaches a crescendo, the cracks explode, sending shards of reality scattering across the forest floor and filling your vision with a blinding light of green and blue.
The first thing you hear following this event is the sound of rushing wind as the walls of reality drift back together. However, in the fading light of whatever was beyond the wall, a silhouette takes shape. Their details are obscured, as if you—or rather, this world—should not see whatever this creature is. Yet, it begins to slowly step across the clearing and into the forest. The featureless being turns what should be its head on a swivel, as if it is taking in the surroundings, searching for something unseen. Suddenly, two bright eyes turn towards you, directly staring through the "presence" of the vision. A large, toothy grin emerges where their mouth should be, the rest of their being still appearing to you like television static. Their voice, layered on top of itself like a chorus beyond the confines of our universe, echoes as they turn back towards the woods and begin to move with a newfound purpose.
"This place. It feels like…home."
The scene shifts from a dark forest to one of light, and you are momentarily blinded.
Beneath the emerald canopy of a Croithir Forest, on a small clearing kissed by speckles of sunlight, a pixie and a fawn reclined on a checkered blanket, surrounded by the remnants of a leisurely picnic. Half-eaten dishes and empty bottles of honey wine testified to the afternoon's merriment, while the laughter of other party attendees echoed from a nearby waterfall, where they had gone to play in the cool summer air.
The pixie, her wings a soft blur of motion as she reached for a leftover berry, chuckled. "Can you believe it? Dreamwalkers and Pucks, having an audience with the House of Lords. Never thought I'd see the day."
The fawn, lounging comfortably with his back against a tree stump, smiled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "The world's full of surprises, isn't it? But did you hear about the little mishap near the Garden of Lost Whispers? A fire, of all things. Rumor has it someone might have been caught up in it. Hopefully, everyone's all right."
Nibbling on the berry, the pixie sighed, her expression softening with concern. "I do hope so. That garden's a treasure trove of secrets. Speaking of secrets, have you heard the latest from the winter campus? They're up to something up north, something hidden under a snowstorm. A secret excavation project, they say."
The fawn's ears perked up, intrigued. "Really now? They're always on the hunt for ancient relics and magic. Makes you wonder what they've found this time, doesn't it?"
The conversation flowed as easily as the wine had earlier, with the two old friends catching up on the latest whispers. As the sounds of joy and splashing water carried over from the waterfall, the afternoon waned, leaving them in a comfortable lull, impervious to the worries of the world.~
The pixie, her wings a soft blur of motion as she reached for a leftover berry, chuckled. "Can you believe it? Dreamwalkers and Pucks, having an audience with the House of Lords. Never thought I'd see the day."
The fawn, lounging comfortably with his back against a tree stump, smiled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "The world's full of surprises, isn't it? But did you hear about the little mishap near the Garden of Lost Whispers? A fire, of all things. Rumor has it someone might have been caught up in it. Hopefully, everyone's all right."
Nibbling on the berry, the pixie sighed, her expression softening with concern. "I do hope so. That garden's a treasure trove of secrets. Speaking of secrets, have you heard the latest from the winter campus? They're up to something up north, something hidden under a snowstorm. A secret excavation project, they say."
The fawn's ears perked up, intrigued. "Really now? They're always on the hunt for ancient relics and magic. Makes you wonder what they've found this time, doesn't it?"
The conversation flowed as easily as the wine had earlier, with the two old friends catching up on the latest whispers. As the sounds of joy and splashing water carried over from the waterfall, the afternoon waned, leaving them in a comfortable lull, impervious to the worries of the world.~
A group of merchants gathered near their nomad vessels at the landing field on the Hope.
"I was out for my morning walk," began an elderly Red Chromite, "when I stumbled upon it. A painting, hanging on a tree, right there in the clearing, as if the forest itself had conjured it overnight."
A young woman, her hair tied back in a practical braid, leaned in closer. "What did it depict?" she asked, her voice laced with curiosity.
"It was a landscape," he replied, "but not of any place I've ever seen. The colors were vivid, almost glowing, with a path winding into a forest that seemed... alive. It felt like the canvas was watching me."
A murmur of theories ran through the group as they pondered his words. Then, a boy, no more than ten, piped up, "Do you think it's a message? Or maybe a gateway? Did the Dreamwalkers make it? They built the funny water pipe things with the pirates in the woods too."
His mother, a kind-faced woman, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Who knows? But it's certainly stirred up quite the buzz. Old Scalehorn believes it's a sign of good fortune, while Ms. Sedia reckons it's a warning."~
A young woman, her hair tied back in a practical braid, leaned in closer. "What did it depict?" she asked, her voice laced with curiosity.
"It was a landscape," he replied, "but not of any place I've ever seen. The colors were vivid, almost glowing, with a path winding into a forest that seemed... alive. It felt like the canvas was watching me."
A murmur of theories ran through the group as they pondered his words. Then, a boy, no more than ten, piped up, "Do you think it's a message? Or maybe a gateway? Did the Dreamwalkers make it? They built the funny water pipe things with the pirates in the woods too."
His mother, a kind-faced woman, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Who knows? But it's certainly stirred up quite the buzz. Old Scalehorn believes it's a sign of good fortune, while Ms. Sedia reckons it's a warning."~
Your vision pans up, far and away from the Hope. Into a moonless night where the world goes silent.
Then there is a crackling sound and the color of the sky shifts into the appearance of a TV set tuned to empty static. The warm glow of light from the screen fills your vision, and the flickering pattern of visual snow gives way to the sight of two young men in their early twenties sitting in a radio booth. One wearing a tie-dye shirt and yellow baseball cap, the other with long blonde hair and glasses.
“It's another Friday night, you know what that means, Bingo?” The man in the yellow hat says into his microphone.
“I don't know, Ziggy,” the long-haired man says, bashfully. “What does that mean?”
“It means we've got nothing to do but sit around and watch another stupid movie on TV and make fun of it!” Ziggy shouts, with exaggerated glee.
“Oh, I thought we like… I don't know, maybe we had dates or something.” Bingo says, sounding slightly dejected. He dips his head down in a playful show of dejection.
“I'm afraid not, my friend,” Ziggy says. “But keep living that dream and maybe someday it'll come true!”
“Really?” Bingo asks.
“Not really,” Ziggy say. “But anything can happen in a dream.”
“Darn right it can,” Bingo says. “Just like anything can happen on…” Bingo points to Ziggy.
“Ziggy!” Ziggy shouts. He points back to Bingo with a wide smile plastered on his face.
“And Bingo's!” Bingo shouts back, sharing Ziggy's smile.
“EXCELLENT BROADCAST!” The two shout in unison and rise from their chairs to make air guitar motions. They hurriedly sit, however, and are back to business on the microphones.
“What are we watching today, Ziggy?” Bingo asks.
“TV Report Daily says Channel 93 is playing a real stinker called ‘Floral Shop of Terror’” Ziggy says while adjusting some of the switches on the board in front of him.
“The musical with Rip Morangis?” Bingo asks.
“No,” Ziggy says. “The one from the sixties.”
“Oh…” Bingo says, disappointed. “Bummer. Why can't we ever watch any good–”
Bingo was cut off by a loud bellowing voice crying out for them.
“ZIGGY! BINGO! COME HERE I NEED TO TALK TO YOU!”
Ziggy and Bingo flinch visibly. They hunch forward and cover their mouths like children in trouble at school.
“Busted!” Bingo says.
“Dear listeners,” Ziggy says. “We’re experiencing some technical difficulties. We'll be right back after a word from our sponsors.”
Bingo presses a button on the console, and both of them stand as they take off their headphones.
“We better go see what Mr. Mondo wants,” Bingo says soberly. “He sounds pretty mad this time.”
“Nothing we can't handle, my dude.” Ziggy says, placing a reassuring shoulder on Bingo's shoulder. He offers a fist to Bingo. “For the station.”
“That rules the nation!” Bingo says, and bumps his fist into Ziggy's. They both smile as they exit the booth.~
“It's another Friday night, you know what that means, Bingo?” The man in the yellow hat says into his microphone.
“I don't know, Ziggy,” the long-haired man says, bashfully. “What does that mean?”
“It means we've got nothing to do but sit around and watch another stupid movie on TV and make fun of it!” Ziggy shouts, with exaggerated glee.
“Oh, I thought we like… I don't know, maybe we had dates or something.” Bingo says, sounding slightly dejected. He dips his head down in a playful show of dejection.
“I'm afraid not, my friend,” Ziggy says. “But keep living that dream and maybe someday it'll come true!”
“Really?” Bingo asks.
“Not really,” Ziggy say. “But anything can happen in a dream.”
“Darn right it can,” Bingo says. “Just like anything can happen on…” Bingo points to Ziggy.
“Ziggy!” Ziggy shouts. He points back to Bingo with a wide smile plastered on his face.
“And Bingo's!” Bingo shouts back, sharing Ziggy's smile.
“EXCELLENT BROADCAST!” The two shout in unison and rise from their chairs to make air guitar motions. They hurriedly sit, however, and are back to business on the microphones.
“What are we watching today, Ziggy?” Bingo asks.
“TV Report Daily says Channel 93 is playing a real stinker called ‘Floral Shop of Terror’” Ziggy says while adjusting some of the switches on the board in front of him.
“The musical with Rip Morangis?” Bingo asks.
“No,” Ziggy says. “The one from the sixties.”
“Oh…” Bingo says, disappointed. “Bummer. Why can't we ever watch any good–”
Bingo was cut off by a loud bellowing voice crying out for them.
“ZIGGY! BINGO! COME HERE I NEED TO TALK TO YOU!”
Ziggy and Bingo flinch visibly. They hunch forward and cover their mouths like children in trouble at school.
“Busted!” Bingo says.
“Dear listeners,” Ziggy says. “We’re experiencing some technical difficulties. We'll be right back after a word from our sponsors.”
Bingo presses a button on the console, and both of them stand as they take off their headphones.
“We better go see what Mr. Mondo wants,” Bingo says soberly. “He sounds pretty mad this time.”
“Nothing we can't handle, my dude.” Ziggy says, placing a reassuring shoulder on Bingo's shoulder. He offers a fist to Bingo. “For the station.”
“That rules the nation!” Bingo says, and bumps his fist into Ziggy's. They both smile as they exit the booth.~
And then the dream begins.
