A magnificent landscape unfolds before you, crowned by mountains that have kept watch for countless ages.
Enigmatic towers pierce the sky like ancient overgrown obelisks, their origins only known to the people who once dwelled here. You hear the calls of exotic birds and the soft rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze. Towering redwoods blanket much of the island, their timeworn trunks and vast canopies standing as quiet watchers since the dreamworld of yore.
The scene transitions, revealing a coastline nestled at the base of a minor peak and a pristine beach with shimmering golden sands. The waves caress the shore, revealing a patch of sea untouched by the unformed dreaming. On this unspoiled stretch, a well-to-do family has set up white-painted cast iron tables and lawn chairs, enjoying a leisurely picnic amidst the vast emptiness. There private vessel, which has the appearance of a dragonfly, is anchored off the coast and a large pontoon boat has been brought ashore. A breeze drifts by, carrying with it the tantalizing aroma of a feast. Their laughter, interspersed with playful banter, harmonizes with the ambiance, creating a brief, almost perfect moment in time.
Their lavish picnic speaks volumes of their affluence. Ethereal delicacies sprawl before them—from fruits that gleam like trapped sunlight to pastries exuding tantalizing aromas. The centerpiece is an Inkberry Dreamcake, recognizable due to its deep-blue contrasted by the radiant whipped cream atop it, promising a sensory trip through cherished memories with each bite. And yet, uneasy shadows of doubt mar this picturesque moment. While the family members savor the day, some of their butlers and waitstaff exchange furtive glances and darting apprehensive looks toward the island's interior. The tension in the air is tangible to everyone but the family.
Among them is a teenage girl, her skin aglow with a ruby sheen that's most pronounced around her forehead and temples—a hallmark of someone that was born half-chromite. Around her ears, she wears a distinct pair of over-ear mundanian headphones from a bygone era, their vibrant orange foam ear pads a sharp contrast to the lush greenery around her.
Drawn by insatiable curiosity and perhaps the tedium of accompanying her parents, the teenager begins to venture away from the festivities. With every step she takes into the dense woodland, a curious sound she'd noticed earlier becomes more distinct. It's an eerie mix of a low hum and an intermittent rustle, almost as if something is stirring just beyond her line of sight. As she progresses, the tunes from her headphones grow fainter, gradually replaced by an ominous rumble that grows louder and more foreboding.
Unbeknownst to her, back at the picnic site, her parents remain thoroughly engrossed in their lavish meal, blissfully ignorant of her wandering. With each step she takes, the distance between them widens.
Then, in a secluded clearing, she encounters it—a sight so overwhelming that it roots her to the spot. Towering before her is a colossal troll, its imposing figure bathed in an unnatural blue glow. Its skin pulses with light giving it an otherworldly aura.
She instinctively starts to backtrack, trying to melt away silently into the foliage, but fate plays its hand. A twig snaps loudly underfoot, betraying her position. The troll turns, its glowing eyes, previously unfocused, snap directly to her, pinning her with a gaze so intense that it feels palpable.
The vision's perspective abruptly returns to the shoreline just in time to capture the girl’s piercing scream. It shatters the tranquility, sending a nearby flock of seabirds down the beach and through the gathering. As chairs tip and desserts go flying, the picnic is forgotten in an instant: her parents jolt upright, their confusion quickly morphing into sheer panic. The butler staff spring into action even before the scream fully fades. Trays and dishes are abandoned as they rush headlong into the forest with whatever can be brandished as a makeshift weapon.
As the vision starts to fray at the edges, the last clear image you see is of the father. He enters the forest and tears off his sunglasses, his eyes wide and filled with terror.~
The scene transitions, revealing a coastline nestled at the base of a minor peak and a pristine beach with shimmering golden sands. The waves caress the shore, revealing a patch of sea untouched by the unformed dreaming. On this unspoiled stretch, a well-to-do family has set up white-painted cast iron tables and lawn chairs, enjoying a leisurely picnic amidst the vast emptiness. There private vessel, which has the appearance of a dragonfly, is anchored off the coast and a large pontoon boat has been brought ashore. A breeze drifts by, carrying with it the tantalizing aroma of a feast. Their laughter, interspersed with playful banter, harmonizes with the ambiance, creating a brief, almost perfect moment in time.
Their lavish picnic speaks volumes of their affluence. Ethereal delicacies sprawl before them—from fruits that gleam like trapped sunlight to pastries exuding tantalizing aromas. The centerpiece is an Inkberry Dreamcake, recognizable due to its deep-blue contrasted by the radiant whipped cream atop it, promising a sensory trip through cherished memories with each bite. And yet, uneasy shadows of doubt mar this picturesque moment. While the family members savor the day, some of their butlers and waitstaff exchange furtive glances and darting apprehensive looks toward the island's interior. The tension in the air is tangible to everyone but the family.
Among them is a teenage girl, her skin aglow with a ruby sheen that's most pronounced around her forehead and temples—a hallmark of someone that was born half-chromite. Around her ears, she wears a distinct pair of over-ear mundanian headphones from a bygone era, their vibrant orange foam ear pads a sharp contrast to the lush greenery around her.
Drawn by insatiable curiosity and perhaps the tedium of accompanying her parents, the teenager begins to venture away from the festivities. With every step she takes into the dense woodland, a curious sound she'd noticed earlier becomes more distinct. It's an eerie mix of a low hum and an intermittent rustle, almost as if something is stirring just beyond her line of sight. As she progresses, the tunes from her headphones grow fainter, gradually replaced by an ominous rumble that grows louder and more foreboding.
Unbeknownst to her, back at the picnic site, her parents remain thoroughly engrossed in their lavish meal, blissfully ignorant of her wandering. With each step she takes, the distance between them widens.
Then, in a secluded clearing, she encounters it—a sight so overwhelming that it roots her to the spot. Towering before her is a colossal troll, its imposing figure bathed in an unnatural blue glow. Its skin pulses with light giving it an otherworldly aura.
She instinctively starts to backtrack, trying to melt away silently into the foliage, but fate plays its hand. A twig snaps loudly underfoot, betraying her position. The troll turns, its glowing eyes, previously unfocused, snap directly to her, pinning her with a gaze so intense that it feels palpable.
The vision's perspective abruptly returns to the shoreline just in time to capture the girl’s piercing scream. It shatters the tranquility, sending a nearby flock of seabirds down the beach and through the gathering. As chairs tip and desserts go flying, the picnic is forgotten in an instant: her parents jolt upright, their confusion quickly morphing into sheer panic. The butler staff spring into action even before the scream fully fades. Trays and dishes are abandoned as they rush headlong into the forest with whatever can be brandished as a makeshift weapon.
As the vision starts to fray at the edges, the last clear image you see is of the father. He enters the forest and tears off his sunglasses, his eyes wide and filled with terror.~
The scene contorts before you, melding and reshaping, until it solidifies into a long, sandstone corridor.
Light sources create a dance of shadows on the wall, each one as different as its source: flickering torches, glowing oil lamps, modern-day bulbs, and futuristic emitters all gathered from different epochs and arranged to create a dizzying play of patterns. Your eyes finally land on a familiar face moving between the lights, but this time draped in a cloak of deep red and pearl white. Alfred Dean walks forward, he projects an elongated shadow on the wall that exaggerates his every move.
He says to nobody, 'The Dreamwalkers upheld their bargain and managed to extract the Time Capsule from the Vault.'
'Fortunate, indeed,' he replies to himself. 'Another wave cascadin' over that region would be most undesirable.' He continues to make conversation, but no one else is with him in the passage. He wears no earpiece nor maintains concentration on a spell.
You then catch him say, 'Yes, I am back in Alexandria for a few days.'
Soon, he enters a sort of common area where the remnants of an old lounge have been repurposed to serve as a mess hall. The faded words on one wall read 'Cabana Club,' a name reminiscent of a time when this place teemed with troublemakers, goons, and outcasts. Now the room echoes with the voices of several strangers whose appearances are both memorable and somehow forgotten in an instant. This blur of beings is currently preoccupied with a question of when the next temporal ripple will happen and are seeking solace in communal feasting and shared grievances. Although a hint of longing plays across Alfred's face, suggesting a desire to join them, he resolutely continues on, eventually reaching a pair of imposing double doors.
Upon crossing the threshold, a subtle, magical energy brushes against him, sending an involuntary shiver down his spine. Ahead, another door waits for him.
He halts momentarily, addressing his ever-present shadow. 'You know the rules... you wait here.' The shadow, an enigma in its own right, seems to quiver in response.
Without further ado, the man raps a fist on the door and steps inside, announcing loudly, 'Lady Fable, I bring tidings from the Hand of Eternity. They've requested an audience...' The door swings shut behind him, silencing his voice.
Outside, his shadow hesitates for a moment, its form undulating uncertainly. It then pivots, retracing its steps back toward the bustling common area."~
He says to nobody, 'The Dreamwalkers upheld their bargain and managed to extract the Time Capsule from the Vault.'
'Fortunate, indeed,' he replies to himself. 'Another wave cascadin' over that region would be most undesirable.' He continues to make conversation, but no one else is with him in the passage. He wears no earpiece nor maintains concentration on a spell.
You then catch him say, 'Yes, I am back in Alexandria for a few days.'
Soon, he enters a sort of common area where the remnants of an old lounge have been repurposed to serve as a mess hall. The faded words on one wall read 'Cabana Club,' a name reminiscent of a time when this place teemed with troublemakers, goons, and outcasts. Now the room echoes with the voices of several strangers whose appearances are both memorable and somehow forgotten in an instant. This blur of beings is currently preoccupied with a question of when the next temporal ripple will happen and are seeking solace in communal feasting and shared grievances. Although a hint of longing plays across Alfred's face, suggesting a desire to join them, he resolutely continues on, eventually reaching a pair of imposing double doors.
Upon crossing the threshold, a subtle, magical energy brushes against him, sending an involuntary shiver down his spine. Ahead, another door waits for him.
He halts momentarily, addressing his ever-present shadow. 'You know the rules... you wait here.' The shadow, an enigma in its own right, seems to quiver in response.
Without further ado, the man raps a fist on the door and steps inside, announcing loudly, 'Lady Fable, I bring tidings from the Hand of Eternity. They've requested an audience...' The door swings shut behind him, silencing his voice.
Outside, his shadow hesitates for a moment, its form undulating uncertainly. It then pivots, retracing its steps back toward the bustling common area."~
The your vision ripples, soon immersing you in the vast, unyielding void of space.
Within moments, a sleek spacecraft gleams against the celestial backdrop, drawing you near. Guided by the unseen forces of the soulforge, you seamlessly transition through the ship's hull, revealing sterile, white corridors within. The interior follows cookie-cutter design principles that are prevalent across corporate establishments of Planet X, but as you glide along, a prominent black insignia on the wall catches your attention: "RiAD. Reinventing Life." The letter 'i' is cleverly fashioned into a DNA helix, its intricate design twisting and winding. A fleeting thought occurs to you about the irony of such a logo representing a colossal antiseptic corporation like this one.
You're soon led towards a bustling area — a vast room filled with cubicle-bound employees, their fingers dancing on keyboards, voices overlapping in a cacophony of corporate hustle. But among the multitude, one figure stands out — a thin Terran man, closely observed by two superiors who emanate an air of authority. His computer screen flashes an alarming message:
>> Unit Designation: CR-1000 : Charlies Duncan Willis
>> Status: DECEASED
>> Last Update: HULL INTEGRITY COMPROMISED
>> DA-Z TRANSPORT FREIGHTER LOST
>> DA-Z TRANSPORT FREIGHTER LOST
>> DA-Z TRANSPORT FREIGHTER LOST
Pedrios, a Tau Ceti man wearing a crisp white suit with the RiAD logo emblazoned on the chest, turns to the other supervisor. “Well…at least we won’t have to spend creds to eliminate him the conventional way, right?"
Without missing a beat, he swivels toward the Terran. "Niskavaara, what's the meaning of this? Why summon us for such a trivial matter?”
The adjacent supervisor, a Volbrani woman, wearily nods in agreement, echoing sentiments she's clearly conveyed countless times before. “He could have easily fallen prey to a pirate raid. Out on the outer rims, pirates would snatch up anything for a handful of credits.” Her tone is firm and impatient, hinting she's been through this routine one too many times.
Juho Niskavaara, adjusting the rectangular glasses perched on his nose, responds, “While it's possible he was ambushed by raiders or even struck by space debris, remember that the termination procedure was planned just a few days prior to this event. Could be a coincidence, but…”
He grows increasingly frantic. “Earlier, I had initiated the backup memory storage. I only managed to retrieve the last couple of days before the... Duncan Unit disappeared.”
Swiftly, he types on his keyboard, activating an audio file. A program springs to life on the monitor, filling the room with the gentle hum of a ship’s engine and the occasional chime of its on-board systems. Amidst this, a recognizable voice punctuates the ambience.
“Man… that was ...thing else. Dai... you wou... believe it..."
"I ven... back into the...Dreamin’, and fou....somethi... called an… oogaloth? It was ...sane.” Just as abruptly as it began, the audio halts, and Niskavaara braces for the reactions of his superiors.
Pedrios' annoyance morphs into something more intense as he grips the back of Juho's chair, leaning in threateningly. “Ensure this recording is transmitted to me immediately. Afterwards, delete it. Clear it from every storage point. No traces, no backups. I'll see to its implications.” His whisper, though hushed, drips with fury. As he straightens up and strides down the corridor, the puzzled Volbrani trails behind. Your vision then fades.~
You're soon led towards a bustling area — a vast room filled with cubicle-bound employees, their fingers dancing on keyboards, voices overlapping in a cacophony of corporate hustle. But among the multitude, one figure stands out — a thin Terran man, closely observed by two superiors who emanate an air of authority. His computer screen flashes an alarming message:
>> Unit Designation: CR-1000 : Charlies Duncan Willis
>> Status: DECEASED
>> Last Update: HULL INTEGRITY COMPROMISED
>> DA-Z TRANSPORT FREIGHTER LOST
>> DA-Z TRANSPORT FREIGHTER LOST
>> DA-Z TRANSPORT FREIGHTER LOST
Pedrios, a Tau Ceti man wearing a crisp white suit with the RiAD logo emblazoned on the chest, turns to the other supervisor. “Well…at least we won’t have to spend creds to eliminate him the conventional way, right?"
Without missing a beat, he swivels toward the Terran. "Niskavaara, what's the meaning of this? Why summon us for such a trivial matter?”
The adjacent supervisor, a Volbrani woman, wearily nods in agreement, echoing sentiments she's clearly conveyed countless times before. “He could have easily fallen prey to a pirate raid. Out on the outer rims, pirates would snatch up anything for a handful of credits.” Her tone is firm and impatient, hinting she's been through this routine one too many times.
Juho Niskavaara, adjusting the rectangular glasses perched on his nose, responds, “While it's possible he was ambushed by raiders or even struck by space debris, remember that the termination procedure was planned just a few days prior to this event. Could be a coincidence, but…”
He grows increasingly frantic. “Earlier, I had initiated the backup memory storage. I only managed to retrieve the last couple of days before the... Duncan Unit disappeared.”
Swiftly, he types on his keyboard, activating an audio file. A program springs to life on the monitor, filling the room with the gentle hum of a ship’s engine and the occasional chime of its on-board systems. Amidst this, a recognizable voice punctuates the ambience.
“Man… that was ...thing else. Dai... you wou... believe it..."
"I ven... back into the...Dreamin’, and fou....somethi... called an… oogaloth? It was ...sane.” Just as abruptly as it began, the audio halts, and Niskavaara braces for the reactions of his superiors.
Pedrios' annoyance morphs into something more intense as he grips the back of Juho's chair, leaning in threateningly. “Ensure this recording is transmitted to me immediately. Afterwards, delete it. Clear it from every storage point. No traces, no backups. I'll see to its implications.” His whisper, though hushed, drips with fury. As he straightens up and strides down the corridor, the puzzled Volbrani trails behind. Your vision then fades.~
You feel the oppresive heat of a thousand deadly summers and dust fills your nostrils as this vision takes shape.
The horizon stretches before you, revealing the once-prosperous Southwest of the former New Canada Republic, now a vast expanse of decay and desolation. The remnants of ancient cities lie buried in sand and time, their stories lost like whispers in a vast Wasteland that remains under the control of the Idol Sovereignty.
Then, a heavenly spectacle disrupts the stillness. First, the sky starts to shimmer, and then, a cascade of blue and white comets begin to crash upon the surface. To the unfortunates caught in the storm it was a tempestuous downpour of death that few would survive, but the wasteland had always been cursed by death. However, these comets brought more than destruction; the celestial visitors bore gifts—rare minerals, pristine ice, and microscopic seeds of life. It was as if Freyja herself, in a divine gesture, sought to rejuvenate this desolate realm. The resulting craters would soon fill with water that one day would teem with life, and in time birth oases that could offer a foundation for a peaceful civilization to return.
But time is a luxury in short supply.
As your vision extends beyond the storm and the Idol's sanctuary, you bear witness to a broader view of planetary suffering. The world outside is dying in the grip of cataclysmic turmoil. Lava rivers carve through the land, while choking ash clouds create an eternal twilight. The planet's underside has fractured, and its core leaks into the abyss. Soon, it would collide with the moon or spread out like a deadly ring of molten rock.
Things had taken a dire turn since the last time dreamwalker eyes glimpsed this world from afar.
And yet, holding this furious onslaught at bay, there's a shimmering barrier that rises over the southwest. It pulses with ethereal energy, the work of powerful magic striving to keep the imminent collapse at bay. The strength and will behind this barrier are palpable, a testament to some force or entity's desperate bid to buy that precious time.
Suddenly, a phantom clock pierces your vision. Its hands align, and a resonant chime sounds, marking a moment of cosmic significance. When the vision's curtain finally falls, it leaves behind a profound reminder that doomsday fast approaches.
Then, a heavenly spectacle disrupts the stillness. First, the sky starts to shimmer, and then, a cascade of blue and white comets begin to crash upon the surface. To the unfortunates caught in the storm it was a tempestuous downpour of death that few would survive, but the wasteland had always been cursed by death. However, these comets brought more than destruction; the celestial visitors bore gifts—rare minerals, pristine ice, and microscopic seeds of life. It was as if Freyja herself, in a divine gesture, sought to rejuvenate this desolate realm. The resulting craters would soon fill with water that one day would teem with life, and in time birth oases that could offer a foundation for a peaceful civilization to return.
But time is a luxury in short supply.
As your vision extends beyond the storm and the Idol's sanctuary, you bear witness to a broader view of planetary suffering. The world outside is dying in the grip of cataclysmic turmoil. Lava rivers carve through the land, while choking ash clouds create an eternal twilight. The planet's underside has fractured, and its core leaks into the abyss. Soon, it would collide with the moon or spread out like a deadly ring of molten rock.
Things had taken a dire turn since the last time dreamwalker eyes glimpsed this world from afar.
And yet, holding this furious onslaught at bay, there's a shimmering barrier that rises over the southwest. It pulses with ethereal energy, the work of powerful magic striving to keep the imminent collapse at bay. The strength and will behind this barrier are palpable, a testament to some force or entity's desperate bid to buy that precious time.
Suddenly, a phantom clock pierces your vision. Its hands align, and a resonant chime sounds, marking a moment of cosmic significance. When the vision's curtain finally falls, it leaves behind a profound reminder that doomsday fast approaches.
You are plunged into darkness, serenaded by the haunting notes of a jazz piano warming up for the evening's performance.
In the distance, the muted clatter of serving plates and the hushed cadence of small talk blend seamlessly with the unmistakable scent of cigar smoke. It paints a picture, one of dimly lit alleyways and conspiracies whispered over a Mint Julep. An unfamiliarity grips you; you're somewhere new, somewhere untouched by the Dreaming.
Inherent novelty sweeps over you and the term 'Dreamwalker' floats to the edge of your consciousness—was it spoken aloud by someone, or merely imagined amidst the ambient sounds of this phantom speakeasy? Was it a line from an old talkie, a friend’s recounted story, or perhaps an intrusive thought birthed from Ambience or Crux?
Your mind stills. The somber tones of the piano deepen and form music. Gradually, the visage of a Dramatique metropolis rises, enveloped in a fractal mist that softens the architectural edges, its hues a blend of twilight's deep purple and soft orange. Despite the smog of the city lights, you can still glimpse the sky beyond revealing an awe-inspiring canvas, a Capricieuse masterpiece, where swirling colors and patterns depict the coming night so tidy that it looks hand drawn.
A bass soon joins the ensemble. Elevated in this dreamy panorama, crystal towers rise in the distance like floating punctuations over the mist. However, your gaze is irresistibly pulled downwards to the stark, angular silhouettes of a factory district, now silent as the last few Opalites end their daily grind and punch the time clock.
Suddenly, the pace shifts with a rhythmic drumbeat and the rising and discordant notes of a saxophone. Atop one particular structure, a group of cloaked figures convene, their forms briefly highlighted against the dim glow of the fading light. They exchange fleeting gestures—a series of hand signals that feel both archaic and arcane. As they melt into the building's shadowy interior, their movements are fluid, synchronized, as if rehearsed countless times.
The city's sounds persist, but a hush seems to descend—a pause, a breath held in anticipation. It's a momentary stillness that feels loaded with tension, the quiet before a storm.
Then a Saxophone breaks out from the chorus. Without warning, those very figures reemerge at ground level, dispersing into the dim alleyways, becoming one with the city's many secrets. The tension peaks and, just as suddenly as the silence fell, it's shattered by a deafening roar—an explosion that rips through the district, sending echoes of discord throughout the city.
As the reverberations of chaos subside and the vision starts to fade, the melancholic strains of the initial piano resonate, a haunting companion for the opening act.~
Inherent novelty sweeps over you and the term 'Dreamwalker' floats to the edge of your consciousness—was it spoken aloud by someone, or merely imagined amidst the ambient sounds of this phantom speakeasy? Was it a line from an old talkie, a friend’s recounted story, or perhaps an intrusive thought birthed from Ambience or Crux?
Your mind stills. The somber tones of the piano deepen and form music. Gradually, the visage of a Dramatique metropolis rises, enveloped in a fractal mist that softens the architectural edges, its hues a blend of twilight's deep purple and soft orange. Despite the smog of the city lights, you can still glimpse the sky beyond revealing an awe-inspiring canvas, a Capricieuse masterpiece, where swirling colors and patterns depict the coming night so tidy that it looks hand drawn.
A bass soon joins the ensemble. Elevated in this dreamy panorama, crystal towers rise in the distance like floating punctuations over the mist. However, your gaze is irresistibly pulled downwards to the stark, angular silhouettes of a factory district, now silent as the last few Opalites end their daily grind and punch the time clock.
Suddenly, the pace shifts with a rhythmic drumbeat and the rising and discordant notes of a saxophone. Atop one particular structure, a group of cloaked figures convene, their forms briefly highlighted against the dim glow of the fading light. They exchange fleeting gestures—a series of hand signals that feel both archaic and arcane. As they melt into the building's shadowy interior, their movements are fluid, synchronized, as if rehearsed countless times.
The city's sounds persist, but a hush seems to descend—a pause, a breath held in anticipation. It's a momentary stillness that feels loaded with tension, the quiet before a storm.
Then a Saxophone breaks out from the chorus. Without warning, those very figures reemerge at ground level, dispersing into the dim alleyways, becoming one with the city's many secrets. The tension peaks and, just as suddenly as the silence fell, it's shattered by a deafening roar—an explosion that rips through the district, sending echoes of discord throughout the city.
As the reverberations of chaos subside and the vision starts to fade, the melancholic strains of the initial piano resonate, a haunting companion for the opening act.~