As the dreamwalkers faded from the town of Zates a low rumble was heard off in the distance.

Between the stampede, the nightmare attack, and everything else that had gone down Zates wasn’t going to be able to recover from yet another issue, especially with the dreamwalkers no longer around to protect them.

As the Mayor prepared for a second round of evacuations a small humanoid lizard with orange scales and a small stripe of blue running along his crest approached, bowed deeply, and began to speak.

“Hello, my name is Injagi Uuzisz and I am a representative of the blue scale tribe. We have been made aware of your town’s imminent run in with Titan and would like to offer our services in defending your town.”

Mayor Ashvall took off their hat and returned the bow.

“We would be honored for the assistance, thank you. But…”

“Fantastic!” Injagi interjected, cutting off the mayor. “The rest of the clan will be here in an hour”

“That’s great, but you don’t understand. Titan…”

“Titan won’t be able to break a single building once we’re done with them! This will be the strongest and most resilient town on the map! You have nothing to worry about!”

Having finished what he was sent to do, Injagi turned and ran off towards the rumble of approaching construction equipment.

“But… Titan’s been handled…” Said Mayor Ashvall to no one in particular. “Well… maybe they’ll be able to help rebuild some of the town that was damaged by those nightmares.”

Mayor Ashvall brushes some dirt off their jacket and heads towards the saloon.~

The hair on the back of your neck prickles with static.

 A flickering vision overtakes you—like tuning into a half-buried signal on an old CRT television. Rapid-fire images flash too quickly to completely grasp.

A man bursts through an apartment door to raucous applause. Static.

Police cars scream down a congested city street. Static.

A weatherman gestures toward a raincloud hovering over Hackensack, New Jersey. Static.

An empty game show set.

This image lingers.

A large lighted sign with the words “DOUBLE BLIND BARGAIN” blinks in a mesmerizing pattern. The set continues to be eerily vacant. The static energy continues to build, crawling across your skin in electric waves. Goosebumps rise as the tension peaks—until, with a final violent distortion of the image, the charge breaks.

You jolt slightly. The vision vanishes.~

The vision focuses on a digital screen, the contents of which are slightly obscured.

You see a series of Crystalline Conglomerate snowflakes bouncing around as a screensaver, as well as some incomprehensible encryption.

As you study the screen, and the Forge unscrambles the ciphers, you determine that it's an internal corporate c-mailbox, with a message draft currently open.

Hi, all! o/ 
Just as a quick status update, I still haven’t gotten a response on the Alpha Model donor selection query that was raised last week. I’m confident that ☐☐κ☐ is just busy with preparation for the Jubilee, but I wanted to make sure you all know I’m keeping you in the loop ;). 

As you finish reading, the screensaver suddenly vanishes, and you watch as the cursor blinks once, twice, and then words rapidly begin to appear at the end of the message.

Apart from that, we’re almost done with the prep needed on the Beta Subject, so make sure that the Beta Model is on track for completion sooner rather than later. The execs are really hoping to have testing properly started on the integrated version before the Jubilee, which means installation is about to be top priority. ☐☐☐υ☐ has already been assigned to do the interval checks on the Beta Subject while they’re under, so nobody start pestering me for the overtime opportunity :p.

 ⋆˚࿔ ☐μ ☐☐☐☐☐ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆
⪩ResearchSupervisor⪨

The typing stops, and after another second or two the cursor moves to click [send]. As it does, the vision shifts and, with little fanfare, fades.~

Thunder snaps you to attention like the cracking of ancient trees.

Your sight shifts—dragged through storms and into the deep currents of the Unformed Dreaming.

You find yourself aboard a small battered scouting vessel, adorned with bones, scales, and shattered teeth, sails torn but stubbornly catching wind that has no direction. The crew bustles across the deck, boots slipping on slick planks. The air is tense, thick with unspoken dread.

The vision pans as your focus is now shifted to a crewman stumbling down the stairs of the lower decks, muttering about finding spare lantern oil. You watch as he enters the ship’s hold, full of various treasures, relics, and one single rune covered crate, sealed tight. From within, nestled in straw and canvas: a marionette, ornate and old. Its eyes are wide and glass, the kind that never blink. Its face carved into a sinister and unsettling smile. The puppet leaned just slightly forward, as if expecting applause.

You see the moment as the crewman shuffles to the crate and scoffs at it.

“Don’ see the big deal, whas the ‘arm in taking a look.” the crewman, high on ale and arrogance, spoke. He takes a crowbar and pries the crate open.

Unbeknownst to the drunkard, the puppet shifted. Its head cocked slightly as though listening to a joke only it can hear. 

“All dis work fer a toy, be’er be worth the coin.” the crewman muttered.

The man blinked, just for a moment and the puppet was gone.

From above, a scream. Then another. Steel rings out. The vision jerks—time splinters.

You see a pirate hurl a lantern at his crewmate, laughing hysterically. Another kneels at the base of the mast, whispering to the puppet as though taking orders. The air hums like a taut string.

The ship's bosun storms from her quarters, pistol drawn, shouting orders none follow.

“Put it back in the gods-damned box!” she bellows.

The puppet vanishes from its perch. Screams echo across the deck as the crew begins turning on each other, faces twitching with movements not entirely their own. From the galley comes a crash. Another pirate, covered in fresh cuts, babbles nonsense and slashes at empty air.

It sits on the prow now, facing the crew. Watching. Smiling. A deckhand locks eyes with it and jerks like a marionette. His head twists too far. Then, like he's not in control, he lunges toward a crewmate with a splintered spear.

Amid the chaos, the crewman who started this all, who couldn’t leave well enough alone, tumbles into a lifeboat—sweating, sobbing, clutching a coil of rope like it’s a weapon, whispering a prayer to no god in particular. “I didn’t mean to open it. I didn’t mean to open it. I didn’t…need to get help, need help, need help.”

The ship drifts deeper into the fog as the screams fade and the sound of a ship crashing into land echoes in the distance.

Before the vision fades, you see the puppet one final time, with a sinister smile, admiring the chaos.~

"You're the oracle here."

It wasn’t a question.

Sedia looked up to see a masked figure wreathed in shadow and had to suppress the urge to run out of the room.  She’d seen figures like this before—Reapers, always trailing behind the Dreamwalkers, never this close, never without a buffer. Alone now, she did what anyone might do in such a moment: checked for pain, for cold, for whether she was already lying dead on the floor and hadn't noticed yet.

“Will you read for me?”

The Descent faced her with open palms where she could see he was unarmed, spoke and moved with the air of someone who was well aware of the effect he could have on others. The mask on its own was quite frightening: green, with long horns and sharp fangs. The man, however…maybe not more than any of the others she’d met. Just another lost soul in search of guidance.

So Sedia managed a smile and gestured to the chair across from her. “Have a seat.” 

What followed was the standard ritual of shuffling and cutting the deck that many Dreamwalkers had seen countless times. The Reaper picked a pile and Sedia fanned the cards out for them to choose again. A shadowy finger pushed three cards towards her.

She flipped the first one: Strength. A great tree with a network of roots just as expansive as its branches. “You face a great struggle…but I suspect you know that or else you wouldn’t be here. It is as bad as you think. You have what you need to overcome it, but you’ll need to dig deep for that strength and willpower.”

The second card: Boundaries. An armored creature curled around itself to protect its softer stomach. “It may cost you. You need to consider how far you’re willing to go and what you are and are not willing to sacrifice. Since the card’s upright, it tends to mean you’re unbalanced towards giving up too much.”

The third card: The Void reversed. Three concentric diamonds. 

The Reaper, if it was even possible, stilled even further.

​“This doesn’t mean what you think it does. It can be the literal Void, but not this time.” She tapped the first card again. “Whatever this is, it’s not something you can run from forever. I know it’s difficult and I know it’s been painful, but you’re going to have to face it eventually.”~

Your vision is obscured. You can feel a pair of scaly hands gently covering your eyes as you are lead into position.

“Aaaaaaaand… TADA!!!”

Injagi removes his hands from Mayor Ashvall’s eyes and you see the town of Zates looking exactly how it did before.

“Our work here is done!” Says Injagi, beaming with pride.

“But you didn’t do anything” Says Mayor Ashvall, his words a mix of confusion and frustration.

“Ah! I see someone didn’t review the plans!” chides Injagi as he unrolls some blue prints. “You see the town isn’t supposed to LOOK like it’s heavily defended, it’s supposed to look exactly the same as it did before. That way you have the element of SURPRISE on your side! OH OH OH! Watch!”

Injagi turns Mayor Ashvall to see a massive tumbleweed rolling towards the town. As it crosses into the main square several laser guns and plasma throwers sprout out of the buildings and obliterate the offending pile of wood in a single volley. Having vanquished the threat all the guns and armaments retract back into the builds.

Injagi jumps up and down clapping as Mayor Ashvall looks on in horror.

“And that’s what will happen to anyone and anything that enters the town!” Says Injagi excitedly.

“Anyone who tries to threaten the town you mean?” Asks the Mayor cautiously.

“Nope! Anyone who enters the town!” Replies Injagi proudly.

A laser blast rings out and a blackened bird falls from the sky.

“This can’t… we just… how can…” Stammered the Mayor looking for the words. “We just sent out tourism brochures to bring new people in! How will they see our town if they’re shot on sight?!?!?” 

“Maybe if they run reeeeeal fast they can avoid the worst of it?” 

“That won’t do, we have to fix this! Can’t you have it target… nightmares or something?”

“But then it won’t work against Titan!”

“TITAN’S ALREADY BEEN HANDLED!”

Your vision pulls up. As you get higher into the sky the argument below fades further into the distance before finally the vision fades.~

Your vision refocuses on an old gothic temple at the edge of Reverie.

Across the bay, the harbor sways—boats untended, their sails slack, masts clattering like bones in the gale. No voices call out. No lamps are lit. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolls—wild, unmoored, ringing with no rhythm and no hand to calm it.

A low wind snakes through the broken windows of the temple, dragging fog with it like a living thing. The center of the room has a long narrow hearth that runs half the length of the room. The embers burn low and at their center is a silver chalice unburned but bound in chains.

Empty at first, its shine immaculate. Refined. Sacred. But as the bell rings again, something changes.

A ripple.

From the space above the cup, a drop of purple ooze falls. Thick as ink. It strikes the inside with a viscous plop.

Then another. And another.

Soon the chalice is full to the brim with the glimmering, growing substance. It pulses like a heart and squelches like someone sucking air through their teeth. 

It overflows. The thick ooze slithers down the sides in slow, malicious pseudopods, coating the filigree of the cup like oil bleeding into water. The fluid spreads—reaching the embers as they hiss in protest before being buried under the slime. It pools outward across the marble floor in spiraling, unnatural shapes.

From the corners of the room, mice scatter, squeaking in panic. Insects burst from crevices, climbing over one another to escape. But there is no place to flee.

The ooze continues to spread.

The vision shakes with dread.

The torches lining the temple walls gutter, sputter, and finally die. The stained glass windows seem to melt. Shapes move in them now—writhing figures with mouths but no eyes, screaming though no sound comes out. The columns weep ichor. Shadows crawl.

And in the center of the altar, above the still-dripping cup, something solidifies. A sword. It manifests slowly—first as a shimmer, then steel. Long and deliberate. It buries itself into the cracked stone altar with a shriek of metal on stone. The hilt is wrapped in blood—fresh, sticky, and still warm, though no one holds it. Etched into the blade just below the crossguard are four shallow reliefs.

A Radiant Helm, crowned in sunlight and sitting above laurel branches.
A Horse’s Skull with a flowing mane and backed by a headsman's axe.
A pair of congolese long rifles from an old war, crossed to form an X.
And canvas high-tops with the symbol of Serenity, hanging from a cylindrical sword by plaid laces.

The fog outside thickens. The storm rages. The bell rings once more.

The vision twists and with a blink the ooze vanishes and the room returns to normal.

But the sword remains embedded in the altar.

You feel yourself materialize in the Dreaming, but you are not yet awake.

And for a moment—only a moment—you can still taste the purple on your tongue. And it tastes like fear.~

The visions continue, this time with a presence like a phantom made of the Outer Void. 

This is not a Soulforged revelation.

​There is an endless stretch of empty horizon—no planets, no world-disks, no stars. Only a stream of light is nearby, a singular event bending unnaturally and driving you forward.

You hear the faint creak of wood, the hum of a control panel, the sound of gears... the presence of magic, or perhaps technology—but you cannot tell. You recognize that you are aboard a ship, and whatever that means to you materializes around you. Some see sails. Others, steel and steam. Some glimpse space-age metal and glowing circuitry. Your visions flicker into one another, giving you fleeting glimpses of your friends' perceptions.

The vessel is immense and somehow feels hand-carved from bone and starlight. At the center of this moment, you see a long table set for eleven. Ten of the chairs are empty.

In the eleventh sits the Grimm.

Not a mask, not a specter—just a presence. Cold breath weighing in the air. A silhouette lingering in the corner of your eye if you look away. A single rotted mask is laid before him, cracked and darkened by time. A shade of hands hovers over it, trembling slightly, then touches it—like one might touch an old wound. You expect him to speak.

Instead, the silhouette looks up, and two red pinpricks of light stare directly at you.

“They ask to be remembered.”

The voice comes not from the air, but from within your chest. It does not echo or boom, yet it feels deeply familiar. Perhaps it is the voice of the first person you ever saw dead... or the one whose death you caused. Maybe it's the voice of a forgotten friend. Or your own voice—your original voice.
Whatever you hear, the message is the same:

“If they are not remembered, they are not reborn."
"If they are not reborn, neither am I.”

The chairs around the table begin to blink out, one by one. The table stretches, elongating toward a horizon you cannot see and briefly forming into a stack of stones —a burial cairn.

“Find them. Name them. Mourn them if you must.”
“I can only return... if they do.”

The vision collapses like glass beneath your feet.

You wake completely—heart pounding, scrambling to the floor as gravity rights itself.
​
You find yourself on the Hope....