You are not yet awake in the Dreaming, but neither are you truly asleep.
Time slows and your vision flutters like a movie film out of sync on its reel. Space and dimensions forget to behave. And in that weightless moment, you remember something you never learned.
You have always been able to Dreamwalk. You just didn’t have the right word for it yet. Like learning to strengthen a muscle, mix solutions with a chemistry set, or cast magic for the first time.
You see a world made of different Realms, tied together by stories and a grand sense of adventure. It bends around the minds of those who arrive, drawing them toward purpose like a moon pulling the tides. Some awaken to visions of cities made of glass, where strange creatures dress in clothing thrown together in a discordian fashion. Others glimpse places darker, stranger—thick with purplish fog and memories formed into gemstones.
The Dreaming has been waiting for you.
You land near a little town that looks like something out of a western. Facts about it spring to mind, like someone passing notes during a test that you didn't study for. You see artists, tinkers, farmers and feel their emotions --their curiosity— It sits like a pebble on the edge of something vast. The people are kind here. Unafraid. Perhaps unaware. You see a saloon with too few stools, a bell tower that leans, and a central square where someone has left out a chessboard missing its kings.
And then the ground shifts.
It’s subtle at first—like a breath taken too deep. But the sensation climbs up your spine, settling behind your eyes. The trees still themselves. A horse refuses to drink. A house painter drops their brush.
Something is approaching.
The Dream recoils. You feel it in your bones. A Titan stirs beneath the soil of the Realms, closer than it should be. Its thoughts are slow, seismic. Its presence is not malevolent—only inevitable. The kind of being that shifts the course of rivers out of malice.
The Dreaming does not cry out.
It calls you.
Not as a warrior. Not yet. But as a question looking for its answer.
You begin to awaken and you are not where you fell asleep.
What will you do next, Dreamwalker?
~
You have always been able to Dreamwalk. You just didn’t have the right word for it yet. Like learning to strengthen a muscle, mix solutions with a chemistry set, or cast magic for the first time.
You see a world made of different Realms, tied together by stories and a grand sense of adventure. It bends around the minds of those who arrive, drawing them toward purpose like a moon pulling the tides. Some awaken to visions of cities made of glass, where strange creatures dress in clothing thrown together in a discordian fashion. Others glimpse places darker, stranger—thick with purplish fog and memories formed into gemstones.
The Dreaming has been waiting for you.
You land near a little town that looks like something out of a western. Facts about it spring to mind, like someone passing notes during a test that you didn't study for. You see artists, tinkers, farmers and feel their emotions --their curiosity— It sits like a pebble on the edge of something vast. The people are kind here. Unafraid. Perhaps unaware. You see a saloon with too few stools, a bell tower that leans, and a central square where someone has left out a chessboard missing its kings.
And then the ground shifts.
It’s subtle at first—like a breath taken too deep. But the sensation climbs up your spine, settling behind your eyes. The trees still themselves. A horse refuses to drink. A house painter drops their brush.
Something is approaching.
The Dream recoils. You feel it in your bones. A Titan stirs beneath the soil of the Realms, closer than it should be. Its thoughts are slow, seismic. Its presence is not malevolent—only inevitable. The kind of being that shifts the course of rivers out of malice.
The Dreaming does not cry out.
It calls you.
Not as a warrior. Not yet. But as a question looking for its answer.
You begin to awaken and you are not where you fell asleep.
What will you do next, Dreamwalker?
~
(( Note: The remaining visions are tailored towards existing players and storylines. Don't worry if they don't make sense just yet, sometimes they don't make sense to their intended audience and thats alright! ))
The sudden scent of aged paper and wet ink indicates a shift in the vision
It settles in what you determine is a library of some sort, centered on an elderly man hunched over a desk that is presently covered in papers and tomes. He seems to be reading several requests for information. He purses his lips in a slight frown.
“Oh my, oh my, oh my. These youngsters are so full of questions about such strange and suspicious subjects. Nightmares, Far Realm entities, and things like…. The Nightmare King? Nornir Stones?? The Viewership??? ”
The old man’s expression shifts from concentration to concern.
He flips through a few of the books that are in scattered piles around his desk, before slowly filling out some letters and sticking them in envelopes.
“My oh my, I guess I need to write this down.”
The old gentleman takes a leaf of paper from the desk and stands, creakily, before slowly travelling down the library's corridors. The building is a maze that the man navigates with ease, turning and changing directions with seemingly no pattern until he pauses at a large iron gate sealing off another section of the library. A large plaque on the gate states, “Restricted Access, Authorized Librarians only.” He pulls a large key ring off of his belt and, after almost an eternity of painstakingly sorting through keys, you and him are through the gate. The gentleman resumes his trek before stopping at a marble plinth holding a large, dust-covered tome. He sighs as he produces a pen and opens the book. You see a small list of names—some even seeming familiar to you, although you can’t quite make them out—as he adds another notation into the book before closing it. The vision begins to fade, and as you watch the elderly man start down one of the other corridors in this section, you faintly hear him mutter to himself,
“Gotta keep a close eye on these ones… seem to always be asking about dangerous subjects.”
~
“Oh my, oh my, oh my. These youngsters are so full of questions about such strange and suspicious subjects. Nightmares, Far Realm entities, and things like…. The Nightmare King? Nornir Stones?? The Viewership??? ”
The old man’s expression shifts from concentration to concern.
He flips through a few of the books that are in scattered piles around his desk, before slowly filling out some letters and sticking them in envelopes.
“My oh my, I guess I need to write this down.”
The old gentleman takes a leaf of paper from the desk and stands, creakily, before slowly travelling down the library's corridors. The building is a maze that the man navigates with ease, turning and changing directions with seemingly no pattern until he pauses at a large iron gate sealing off another section of the library. A large plaque on the gate states, “Restricted Access, Authorized Librarians only.” He pulls a large key ring off of his belt and, after almost an eternity of painstakingly sorting through keys, you and him are through the gate. The gentleman resumes his trek before stopping at a marble plinth holding a large, dust-covered tome. He sighs as he produces a pen and opens the book. You see a small list of names—some even seeming familiar to you, although you can’t quite make them out—as he adds another notation into the book before closing it. The vision begins to fade, and as you watch the elderly man start down one of the other corridors in this section, you faintly hear him mutter to himself,
“Gotta keep a close eye on these ones… seem to always be asking about dangerous subjects.”
~
"I am going." says a voice in the dark.
And slowly the shapes of an office form around you, but the figures are still taking shape.
He didn’t ask how she got into his office. Or why she arrived unannounced, it was the way of things. Not that anyone could or would want to do anything about the random visits. She was always more serious when it came time for this.
“Do you expect me to stop you?” He said looking over his glasses without bringing his head up from the paperwork strewn across his desk that was a living tree, new buds growing along its branches heralding the spring.
The faun furrowed her brow for a moment thinking about the question. “No. I think you will come with whether I ask you to or not so. Do you want to come with me?”
Puck put down his pen and sighed. “Want to? Yes, of course. But. This time is different. I want to see where it goes. That hasn’t worked the other times. Maybe it's me. Maybe it is the circumstances. Either way. Best for me to let them handle it.”
“Well,” She smiled and the desk tree sprouted cherry blossoms that bloomed fully in just a few seconds. “I would like you to at least go with me to meet them. Whether you come or not is up to you.”
“What are we calling you now?”
“In Solstice, Puck. Until I fulfill my promise and return what I hid, I am as much of a Puck as any of you. Outside of Solstice? I know who I am. Even if I don’t remember.”
~
He didn’t ask how she got into his office. Or why she arrived unannounced, it was the way of things. Not that anyone could or would want to do anything about the random visits. She was always more serious when it came time for this.
“Do you expect me to stop you?” He said looking over his glasses without bringing his head up from the paperwork strewn across his desk that was a living tree, new buds growing along its branches heralding the spring.
The faun furrowed her brow for a moment thinking about the question. “No. I think you will come with whether I ask you to or not so. Do you want to come with me?”
Puck put down his pen and sighed. “Want to? Yes, of course. But. This time is different. I want to see where it goes. That hasn’t worked the other times. Maybe it's me. Maybe it is the circumstances. Either way. Best for me to let them handle it.”
“Well,” She smiled and the desk tree sprouted cherry blossoms that bloomed fully in just a few seconds. “I would like you to at least go with me to meet them. Whether you come or not is up to you.”
“What are we calling you now?”
“In Solstice, Puck. Until I fulfill my promise and return what I hid, I am as much of a Puck as any of you. Outside of Solstice? I know who I am. Even if I don’t remember.”
~
You're overlooking a mining town, the only visible collection of structures in a small stand of trees, the only shade for miles across a vast trek of badlands.
As you approach the town, your focus narrows on a single person as they walk down the main street, a friendly wave being given to everyone they pass on the walk. His hair is an unkempt mess of grey-black knots tied haphazardly into a ponytail, and he has a bindle slung over his shoulder, gently bobbing up and down. The figure eventually comes to a stop next to an older looking gentleman with a large graying handlebar mustache, who nods to the man you’ve been following. As they speak, the speed and cadence of the words seem to be giving the Soulforge some translation issues.
“Wellheytheremayorashvallhopetodaysgoinwellforyouimofftopickupthosesuppliesforthetownfrommyhavenrequsition.”
“We appreciate all of your help with this, Mr. Gregory.”
The apparent Mr. Gregory resumes his walk towards and then past the edge of town. The vision pulls back as he finally stops just before the mouth of a yawning pit. You once again hear the familiar voice speak out loud as you strain to see anything past the pitch darkness obscuring the bottom of the pit.
“Nowaintthisjustthebestdanghidingspot.”
~
“Wellheytheremayorashvallhopetodaysgoinwellforyouimofftopickupthosesuppliesforthetownfrommyhavenrequsition.”
“We appreciate all of your help with this, Mr. Gregory.”
The apparent Mr. Gregory resumes his walk towards and then past the edge of town. The vision pulls back as he finally stops just before the mouth of a yawning pit. You once again hear the familiar voice speak out loud as you strain to see anything past the pitch darkness obscuring the bottom of the pit.
“Nowaintthisjustthebestdanghidingspot.”
~
"Don't forget the lantern. That thing has given luck to generation of our family. Of the village really."
You see a soot covered miner speaking to his son.
“Make sure you never go without it. It will keep you safe,” he continues.
The son, barely more than a boy, and much cleaner than his father, nods solemnly. He grabs the lantern, lights it and enters the mine with his father. The lantern casts a happy glow in the gloom as the miners sing in rhythm with their steps.
It was hard work, but it was satisfying to help their village get what they needed. They were blessed to have such resources. Being the youngest and newest, Risu hung towards the back of the group, letting his elders show him the ropes of their noble profession. He carried the lunches and the lantern, and his fellow apprentice, Torphin, pushed the cart deep into the mine.
The soulforge pulls your vision into soft focus as you see days pass and the young men grow, always remembering the lantern as they venture into the mines. Your vision sharpens again as Risu and Torphin, both masters of their crafts by now, finish up their lunch,
“Let’s get moving then. Get this cart up to the next section and we can fill it by the end of the day, maybe even early enough to surprise the missus.”
As they push the cart further into the mine, suddenly the track breaks and the cart careens into a brace. Everything goes black, except for the light of the lantern, whose warm glow turns a ghostly green and the soul forge pulls your vision away.
~
“Make sure you never go without it. It will keep you safe,” he continues.
The son, barely more than a boy, and much cleaner than his father, nods solemnly. He grabs the lantern, lights it and enters the mine with his father. The lantern casts a happy glow in the gloom as the miners sing in rhythm with their steps.
It was hard work, but it was satisfying to help their village get what they needed. They were blessed to have such resources. Being the youngest and newest, Risu hung towards the back of the group, letting his elders show him the ropes of their noble profession. He carried the lunches and the lantern, and his fellow apprentice, Torphin, pushed the cart deep into the mine.
The soulforge pulls your vision into soft focus as you see days pass and the young men grow, always remembering the lantern as they venture into the mines. Your vision sharpens again as Risu and Torphin, both masters of their crafts by now, finish up their lunch,
“Let’s get moving then. Get this cart up to the next section and we can fill it by the end of the day, maybe even early enough to surprise the missus.”
As they push the cart further into the mine, suddenly the track breaks and the cart careens into a brace. Everything goes black, except for the light of the lantern, whose warm glow turns a ghostly green and the soul forge pulls your vision away.
~
Static.
The air hums with old magic.
You smell copper and storm winds. Not the violence of lightning, but the hush before. The kind of stillness that makes animals flee and ancient stones crack under strain.
Your vision narrows. A flickering lens, like watching memory broadcast through a dusty, half-broken television. The frame stutters. Sound is delayed. Color flickers between overexposed reds and the washed-out sepia of forgotten days.
You smell copper and storm winds. Not the violence of lightning, but the hush before. The kind of stillness that makes animals flee and ancient stones crack under strain.
Your vision narrows. A flickering lens, like watching memory broadcast through a dusty, half-broken television. The frame stutters. Sound is delayed. Color flickers between overexposed reds and the washed-out sepia of forgotten days.
And then—sound.
A vibration you feel in your teeth when something holy—or profane—is trying to breach your understanding like the shake a subwoofer all around you. You are not asleep. You are not awake. You are inside a memory the Dreaming itself forgot it was keeping.
A frame flickers into place. Black and white. Oversaturated. Faded at the corners like old tape left too long in the sun.
A voice booms, "The Titan awaits us!"
Not rising. Not arriving. It is simply there, and the world is incorrect around it. A giant beast of red and black scales, like three monstrous centipedes with the heads of dragons and bound at the tails to a misshapen body. Mountains lean the wrong way. Oceans lift in place like bad special effects. Stars on strings fall out of the sky. Their light flickers like they’re unsure they should be watching this memory.
A frame flickers into place. Black and white. Oversaturated. Faded at the corners like old tape left too long in the sun.
A voice booms, "The Titan awaits us!"
Not rising. Not arriving. It is simply there, and the world is incorrect around it. A giant beast of red and black scales, like three monstrous centipedes with the heads of dragons and bound at the tails to a misshapen body. Mountains lean the wrong way. Oceans lift in place like bad special effects. Stars on strings fall out of the sky. Their light flickers like they’re unsure they should be watching this memory.
Motion.
And with that motion, gods. No. Mystics.
An old man with a white beard and dressed in gladiator armor, falls like a comet and you can feel the heat from his reentry in your bones. The land craters beneath him. You see others appear nearby, stepping out of shadow. Shapes, once revered, now only hinted at in broken murals and half-remembered chants. A name appears to you.
Kronus.
He does not speak. He does not need to. Titan turns toward him, and the battle begins—not with fanfare, but with inevitability. Kronus strikes first. A blade of starlight drawn from his own ribs—something sacrificial and divine.
An old man with a white beard and dressed in gladiator armor, falls like a comet and you can feel the heat from his reentry in your bones. The land craters beneath him. You see others appear nearby, stepping out of shadow. Shapes, once revered, now only hinted at in broken murals and half-remembered chants. A name appears to you.
Kronus.
He does not speak. He does not need to. Titan turns toward him, and the battle begins—not with fanfare, but with inevitability. Kronus strikes first. A blade of starlight drawn from his own ribs—something sacrificial and divine.
The screen skips and images burn away as quickly as they form.
A spear flies. A crown shatters. A continent burning.
A goddess wrapped in midnight and prophecy, her tears falling upward to trap Titan’s thoughts.
A laughing thing, all fire and chain, weaving impossible geometry around Titan's legs like manacles made of paradox.
You can feel a third—or tenth, or hundredth—presence. Its identities blur, shifting with every breath. It holds something else at bay—something or someone that tries to watch the vision alongside you. A sense of Dread overwhelms you before the Soulforge pushes back against the intruder.
A goddess wrapped in midnight and prophecy, her tears falling upward to trap Titan’s thoughts.
A laughing thing, all fire and chain, weaving impossible geometry around Titan's legs like manacles made of paradox.
You can feel a third—or tenth, or hundredth—presence. Its identities blur, shifting with every breath. It holds something else at bay—something or someone that tries to watch the vision alongside you. A sense of Dread overwhelms you before the Soulforge pushes back against the intruder.
A bolt of lighting slices through the dread and for a brief moment you see the outline of a mighty figure charge forward as a second bolt forms in his hand. And then--
Titan roars!
And the vision shatters.
Your mind returns to the present and you wake up in a little town called Zates...
