From the darkness of your mind a vast pale beach emerges.
It is a barren place. Salt-scoured trees stand dead along the shore while great churning waves hurl themselves against the sand. Far out in the gray distance, an ancient stone fortress rises from the sea before fading into the unfinished haze of dream. Its silhouette leans drunkenly against the horizon, a tattered pirate flag snapping in the storm wind above it. Bruised clouds hang low overhead, swollen with rain.
Two sets of footprints trail across the beach toward a pair of figures standing at the water's edge, watching the fortress.
From behind, one wears a weathered white leather jacket. Blonde hair spills across her shoulders, streaked now with threads of gray. The woman known as Serenity. Beside her stands a second figure wrapped in a worn cloak, frayed at the knee. Beneath it peeks the blue-and-white frills of a dress far less worn by time.
Beyond them lies a gathering of ships. No two are alike, yet there are nine in all.
"The Tides are gathering?" the hooded figure asks.
"It would seem so," Serenity replied.
She remains fixed on the distant fortress, as though listening to voices carried across water an impossible distance.
"They haven't assembled in one place since the stories of the Dreamwalkers return. They're discussing an attack on one of their strongholds. Recent."
The hooded figure stiffens. "By whom?"
"Nightmares."
A moment passes beneath the howl of wind and surf.
"But I thought the pirates were left alone," the hooded figure continues to pry.
"They were. But it was only a matter of time before the King decided they possessed something he wanted."
"Should we be worried?"
The two figures turn, and with them the dream shifts.
The beach dissolves as the vision flips to show their silhouettes facing inland.
A mountain rises before you, vast enough to swallow the horizon. At its feet sprawls a dead city of white stone like bones left to bleach in the sun. The Soulforge shudders as your gaze moves across it. No life stirs among the streets. No voices echo. Not even spirits wander. The city stands abandoned even by the dead.
At the mountain's summit burns a volcanic caldera. Yet no lava spills from its rim, nor does smoke darken the sky. Instead, elemental forces churn above the crater. Fire coils with wind. Water crashes against pillars of stone. The four powers twist together beneath a crown of storm-lit clouds.
Serenity studies the mountain.
"I think something else is unfolding. Far away, within the Courts of Fairy. Winter is moving against the others. The remaining seasons are weakened, but for now they stand together."
Her gaze drifts upward toward the mountain peak.
"Come. Let us see what the mountain has to show us."
Without another word, the two figures begin the long journey toward Mount Olympus.~
Two sets of footprints trail across the beach toward a pair of figures standing at the water's edge, watching the fortress.
From behind, one wears a weathered white leather jacket. Blonde hair spills across her shoulders, streaked now with threads of gray. The woman known as Serenity. Beside her stands a second figure wrapped in a worn cloak, frayed at the knee. Beneath it peeks the blue-and-white frills of a dress far less worn by time.
Beyond them lies a gathering of ships. No two are alike, yet there are nine in all.
"The Tides are gathering?" the hooded figure asks.
"It would seem so," Serenity replied.
She remains fixed on the distant fortress, as though listening to voices carried across water an impossible distance.
"They haven't assembled in one place since the stories of the Dreamwalkers return. They're discussing an attack on one of their strongholds. Recent."
The hooded figure stiffens. "By whom?"
"Nightmares."
A moment passes beneath the howl of wind and surf.
"But I thought the pirates were left alone," the hooded figure continues to pry.
"They were. But it was only a matter of time before the King decided they possessed something he wanted."
"Should we be worried?"
The two figures turn, and with them the dream shifts.
The beach dissolves as the vision flips to show their silhouettes facing inland.
A mountain rises before you, vast enough to swallow the horizon. At its feet sprawls a dead city of white stone like bones left to bleach in the sun. The Soulforge shudders as your gaze moves across it. No life stirs among the streets. No voices echo. Not even spirits wander. The city stands abandoned even by the dead.
At the mountain's summit burns a volcanic caldera. Yet no lava spills from its rim, nor does smoke darken the sky. Instead, elemental forces churn above the crater. Fire coils with wind. Water crashes against pillars of stone. The four powers twist together beneath a crown of storm-lit clouds.
Serenity studies the mountain.
"I think something else is unfolding. Far away, within the Courts of Fairy. Winter is moving against the others. The remaining seasons are weakened, but for now they stand together."
Her gaze drifts upward toward the mountain peak.
"Come. Let us see what the mountain has to show us."
Without another word, the two figures begin the long journey toward Mount Olympus.~
The laughter of evening lingers as the next vision takes shape.
Cobblestone streets glow beneath enchanted lanterns, their warm light spilling across the sprawling avenues of Croithir. Music drifts from open tavern doors. Merchants call to passing customers. The city hums with the easy confidence of a summer night.
Soldiers bearing the sigil of the Summer Court patrol among the crowds.
A man dressed in Captain's garb pauses at a food stall, drawn by the scent of roasted meat and spice. He points to a skewer laden with strange crimson peppers and charred cuts of meat.
"One of those."
A few coins change hands. Grinning, the soldier turns away and takes an exaggerated bite.
His teeth strike something hard.
The smile vanishes.
He pulls the skewer back and stares at it. Frost crystals cling to the meat. A thin sheen of ice glitters beneath the lantern light.
"What in the—"
The soldier turns toward the vendor.
"This some kind of joke you're sellin' me?"
The words die in his throat.
The vendor stands motionless behind the cart. White frost crawls across his skin. Ice spreads over his clothes and beard. Before the soldier's eyes, the man freezes.
A cold knot forms in his stomach.
Then he notices his breath.
White mist curls from his lips.
In the height of summer.
The laughter and music of the city begin to falter.
All around him, frost races across the cobblestones. Ice creeps up walls and lantern posts. Window shutters crack as they freeze shut. Crystalline spikes burst from rooftops like jagged teeth.
For a heartbeat the crowd simply stares.
Then the screaming begins.
Some cry out in terror. Others shout in alarm. A few stand frozen in disbelief as the unnatural winter sweeps through the streets.
The soldier drops the skewer and thrusts out a hand. Summer magic surges from him in waves of golden heat. The air shimmers. Ice melts from the vendor's face, though only slightly.
Not enough.
Nowhere near enough.
Looking around in horror, he sees the frost spreading faster than he can fight it.
"Soldiers!" he bellows.
Nearby patrols snap to attention.
"Move! Get these people out of here!"
He points toward the far end of the street where the ice has yet to reach.
"That way! Quickly! To the edge of this foul magic!"
The crowd surges into motion as winter descends upon Croithir.~
Soldiers bearing the sigil of the Summer Court patrol among the crowds.
A man dressed in Captain's garb pauses at a food stall, drawn by the scent of roasted meat and spice. He points to a skewer laden with strange crimson peppers and charred cuts of meat.
"One of those."
A few coins change hands. Grinning, the soldier turns away and takes an exaggerated bite.
His teeth strike something hard.
The smile vanishes.
He pulls the skewer back and stares at it. Frost crystals cling to the meat. A thin sheen of ice glitters beneath the lantern light.
"What in the—"
The soldier turns toward the vendor.
"This some kind of joke you're sellin' me?"
The words die in his throat.
The vendor stands motionless behind the cart. White frost crawls across his skin. Ice spreads over his clothes and beard. Before the soldier's eyes, the man freezes.
A cold knot forms in his stomach.
Then he notices his breath.
White mist curls from his lips.
In the height of summer.
The laughter and music of the city begin to falter.
All around him, frost races across the cobblestones. Ice creeps up walls and lantern posts. Window shutters crack as they freeze shut. Crystalline spikes burst from rooftops like jagged teeth.
For a heartbeat the crowd simply stares.
Then the screaming begins.
Some cry out in terror. Others shout in alarm. A few stand frozen in disbelief as the unnatural winter sweeps through the streets.
The soldier drops the skewer and thrusts out a hand. Summer magic surges from him in waves of golden heat. The air shimmers. Ice melts from the vendor's face, though only slightly.
Not enough.
Nowhere near enough.
Looking around in horror, he sees the frost spreading faster than he can fight it.
"Soldiers!" he bellows.
Nearby patrols snap to attention.
"Move! Get these people out of here!"
He points toward the far end of the street where the ice has yet to reach.
"That way! Quickly! To the edge of this foul magic!"
The crowd surges into motion as winter descends upon Croithir.~
You drift into a black void of the recent past.
An old man sits alone at a writing desk. His surroundings are hidden even from the sight of the Soulforge, swallowed by a darkness so complete that only he and his work exist within it. His beard falls in white waves to his toes. A single Victoriana-style gas lamp casts a pool of golden light across the desk, illuminating parchment and ink.
The old man writes with deliberate strokes. Golden script flows across the page, but you can make out only the opening lines.
Knight-Commander Cheffield,
I write to you with a dead man's spell.
A crown of pale memory gems rests upon his brow between pointed ears. The icy crystals glimmer softly against the weathered face of the Winter Hermit.
His pen scratches steadily across the page and at last he signs.
Sir Richard Wellington, Hermit of the Winter Court.
He hesitates, then adds one final title.
Master of Spies and Secrets.
The pen comes to rest.
For a moment there is only silence.
Then the old man sighs, "I know you are there."
His voice is calm.
"I know you have always been there."
Slowly, he lifts his head.
"But you won't see anything through these eyes."
Only then do you notice that his eyes are gray as weathered stone.
Blind.
A second voice answers from the darkness. It slips into your ears like honeyed venom.
"I am afraid our game has finally come to an end, little Hermit."
The darkness seems to smile around the words.
"Oh, how I shall miss our games of stones."
"And yet," Wellington replies, "I am the one sitting here with the winning move."
A soft laugh echoes through the void.
"Says the man who is about to lose."
The Hermit smiles.
A tired smile.
"Better that than being a Hag."
His expression hardens.
"Forever chained to the service of a mad queen."
The darkness trembles.
Cold rage floods the void. Then something moves. A colossal blue-gray hand erupts from the blackness. Its fingers close around the Hermit, the desk, and the lamp in a single grasp.
Light vanishes. Everything disappears. Darkness consumes the vision.
Then--
A flicker as golden light struggles between immense fingers. Something is fighting. A scrap of parchment slips free. The letter flutters downward into the abyss and vanishes from sight.
The memory shifts.
*********
Now you stand before a frozen graveyard. Snow drifts between crooked stones and at its center stands a small hut of ice-darkened timber.
A kingly figure waits outside. He is draped in wolf fur and a brilliant blue cloak. His shoulders sag beneath some unseen burden. Upon his brow rests a crown bearing the memory of the Winter Fey Monarchs, but only two gems glow with inner light.
Two crimson lights.
Too high. Too still.
Too unnatural to be eyes but you feel them searching.
The king enters the hut and emerges moments later carrying the Hermit's crown.
The memory gems glow blue. Then, for the briefest instant, they blaze with the deep orange of autumn as an old spell slips.
The color vanishes as quickly as it appeared and the crown returns to winter blue.
The king studies it for a long moment.
"Half measures as always, Kalloch."
His voice carries across the frozen cemetery.
"Maybe you will do better once we have a vessel worthy of your lesser station."
The graveyard falls silent.~
The old man writes with deliberate strokes. Golden script flows across the page, but you can make out only the opening lines.
Knight-Commander Cheffield,
I write to you with a dead man's spell.
A crown of pale memory gems rests upon his brow between pointed ears. The icy crystals glimmer softly against the weathered face of the Winter Hermit.
His pen scratches steadily across the page and at last he signs.
Sir Richard Wellington, Hermit of the Winter Court.
He hesitates, then adds one final title.
Master of Spies and Secrets.
The pen comes to rest.
For a moment there is only silence.
Then the old man sighs, "I know you are there."
His voice is calm.
"I know you have always been there."
Slowly, he lifts his head.
"But you won't see anything through these eyes."
Only then do you notice that his eyes are gray as weathered stone.
Blind.
A second voice answers from the darkness. It slips into your ears like honeyed venom.
"I am afraid our game has finally come to an end, little Hermit."
The darkness seems to smile around the words.
"Oh, how I shall miss our games of stones."
"And yet," Wellington replies, "I am the one sitting here with the winning move."
A soft laugh echoes through the void.
"Says the man who is about to lose."
The Hermit smiles.
A tired smile.
"Better that than being a Hag."
His expression hardens.
"Forever chained to the service of a mad queen."
The darkness trembles.
Cold rage floods the void. Then something moves. A colossal blue-gray hand erupts from the blackness. Its fingers close around the Hermit, the desk, and the lamp in a single grasp.
Light vanishes. Everything disappears. Darkness consumes the vision.
Then--
A flicker as golden light struggles between immense fingers. Something is fighting. A scrap of parchment slips free. The letter flutters downward into the abyss and vanishes from sight.
The memory shifts.
*********
Now you stand before a frozen graveyard. Snow drifts between crooked stones and at its center stands a small hut of ice-darkened timber.
A kingly figure waits outside. He is draped in wolf fur and a brilliant blue cloak. His shoulders sag beneath some unseen burden. Upon his brow rests a crown bearing the memory of the Winter Fey Monarchs, but only two gems glow with inner light.
Two crimson lights.
Too high. Too still.
Too unnatural to be eyes but you feel them searching.
The king enters the hut and emerges moments later carrying the Hermit's crown.
The memory gems glow blue. Then, for the briefest instant, they blaze with the deep orange of autumn as an old spell slips.
The color vanishes as quickly as it appeared and the crown returns to winter blue.
The king studies it for a long moment.
"Half measures as always, Kalloch."
His voice carries across the frozen cemetery.
"Maybe you will do better once we have a vessel worthy of your lesser station."
The graveyard falls silent.~
You feel the intrusion before the vision arrives.
This is not something revealed by the Soulforge and you feel it is unwelcome.
The Nightmare King holds court. You cannot see his face, only violet shadows draped across a throne of pale grey stone. Dim purple light spills through high-set windows that rise above him like those of a gothic cathedral, though the light never quite reaches the floor. One gloved hand rests upon the arm of the throne while the left is encased in a gauntlet of black obsidian that seems to drink the light around it.
To one side of the chamber stand ranks of skeletal warriors. Their bones creak softly beneath weathered paladin armor, rusted iron masks concealing their skulls behind cross-shaped visors. Tattered templar robes hang from their frames, stirring despite the stillness of the hall. Though they do not move, there is an unsettling attentiveness to them, as if each awaits only a single command.
Opposite them gathers a collection of devil-like creatures with crimson skin and great black horns. Branded upon each is the mark of the Puppeteer: a single watchful eye burned into flesh. They murmur among themselves in low voices, some exchanging amused glances while one pours himself a drink from a silver flask. Gray liquid splashes into a waiting cup before disappearing down his throat.
Further back, detached from the gathering, two sharply dressed figures sit at a chessboard in moth eaten suits and hastily knotted ties. Neither seems concerned by the assembled monsters around them. A woman slides a piece forward with deliberate precision.
"Checkmate."
She leans back with a devilish smile, flashing crimson eyes behind mirrored sunglasses as she studies her defeated opponent.
Beyond them linger the lesser nightmares. Husks, Nightwalkers, and other malformed horrors stalk the edges of the hall. They slink through the shadows with narrowed eyes and hunched shoulders, lurking like scavengers around a king's feast. Even they seem reluctant to draw too near the throne.
Then the great doors swing open.
Conversation dies instantly.
A familiar face enters, though something about it feels profoundly wrong.
The Magician, or at least something wearing a Magician's face.
Power radiates from her in jagged waves that grate against the senses. It feels alien, an intrusion from beyond the boundaries of dream and nightmare alike. The Soulforge itself seems to recoil from her presence.
She surveys the assembled court with open amusement—the undead knights, the branded devils, the lesser nightmares, and the fallen Mantlebearers who now serve beneath the Nightmare King's banner. It is a gathering of broken things, each twisted into service of a greater darkness.
A smirk touches her lips before she offers a shallow bow toward the throne.
"My King," she says. "I bring news of a missing piece upon your board."
The chamber falls silent.
The Outsider's smile widens.
"Another collection of misfits."
Her eyes gleam.
"And lost children for your army."
For the first time, something stirs within the violet shadows surrounding the throne.
The Nightmare King laughs.
The vision trembles around you. ~
The Nightmare King holds court. You cannot see his face, only violet shadows draped across a throne of pale grey stone. Dim purple light spills through high-set windows that rise above him like those of a gothic cathedral, though the light never quite reaches the floor. One gloved hand rests upon the arm of the throne while the left is encased in a gauntlet of black obsidian that seems to drink the light around it.
To one side of the chamber stand ranks of skeletal warriors. Their bones creak softly beneath weathered paladin armor, rusted iron masks concealing their skulls behind cross-shaped visors. Tattered templar robes hang from their frames, stirring despite the stillness of the hall. Though they do not move, there is an unsettling attentiveness to them, as if each awaits only a single command.
Opposite them gathers a collection of devil-like creatures with crimson skin and great black horns. Branded upon each is the mark of the Puppeteer: a single watchful eye burned into flesh. They murmur among themselves in low voices, some exchanging amused glances while one pours himself a drink from a silver flask. Gray liquid splashes into a waiting cup before disappearing down his throat.
Further back, detached from the gathering, two sharply dressed figures sit at a chessboard in moth eaten suits and hastily knotted ties. Neither seems concerned by the assembled monsters around them. A woman slides a piece forward with deliberate precision.
"Checkmate."
She leans back with a devilish smile, flashing crimson eyes behind mirrored sunglasses as she studies her defeated opponent.
Beyond them linger the lesser nightmares. Husks, Nightwalkers, and other malformed horrors stalk the edges of the hall. They slink through the shadows with narrowed eyes and hunched shoulders, lurking like scavengers around a king's feast. Even they seem reluctant to draw too near the throne.
Then the great doors swing open.
Conversation dies instantly.
A familiar face enters, though something about it feels profoundly wrong.
The Magician, or at least something wearing a Magician's face.
Power radiates from her in jagged waves that grate against the senses. It feels alien, an intrusion from beyond the boundaries of dream and nightmare alike. The Soulforge itself seems to recoil from her presence.
She surveys the assembled court with open amusement—the undead knights, the branded devils, the lesser nightmares, and the fallen Mantlebearers who now serve beneath the Nightmare King's banner. It is a gathering of broken things, each twisted into service of a greater darkness.
A smirk touches her lips before she offers a shallow bow toward the throne.
"My King," she says. "I bring news of a missing piece upon your board."
The chamber falls silent.
The Outsider's smile widens.
"Another collection of misfits."
Her eyes gleam.
"And lost children for your army."
For the first time, something stirs within the violet shadows surrounding the throne.
The Nightmare King laughs.
The vision trembles around you. ~
