"By the time the clock struck midnight, half the town had forgotten they ever existed."

Your dreams are twisted with images of Mundanian children dressed as ghouls, goblins, and nightmares before the sound of a man's uneasy voice pierces the vision. The nightmares become the knotted limbs of old oak trees and a sparse canopy looms overhead.

A pair of travelers moved down a moonlit path. The man was dressed in mercenary armor and had begun to grow a beard that hung awkwardly on his otherwise well-kept appearance. Halrith Peltcher continued speaking, "Galeston went by other names too. Each town befalling a fate worse than the previous one."

His companion cut in, "Can you recall any of the specifics?" She was dressed in scholarly robes adorned with black flowers marking her as an Arbiter of the League of the Compass Rose.

"Well no," Halrith sputtered, "but I've heard them around the campfire before." Somehow, he always ended up paired with Steward Effy Kaelis whom he found as enjoyable to protect as pushing a boulder up a hill if the boulder could also recount history.

"A legend without the slightest merits of truth is nothing more than a lie with an elaborate backstory," she said dismissively, "What we do know about the town is that it was built atop a Reaper Oubliette that was hidden time and time again by the greater conflicts overshadowing different eras of the Dreamworld... The Nightmare War, The Great Flood, the Seloth Revolution, and the Heir of the Mountain Hall Plot. Each saw widespread desolation or led to brigands, rogue reapers, and tyrants destroying the area."

Effy continued recounting information about Galeston while Halrith listened desperately for a way to change the subject. 

"What is an Oubliette?" he blurted out at about the point she had gone into the strategic importance of the town's location along popular trade routes.

"The Reaper's Oubliette? Oh, we actually don't know all that much about their construction, but they are powerfully cursed prisons that fuse a person's soul to the location. The ancient Templar Order found a way to tap into that magic when they trapped Grigori, but none of them survived long enough to record the ritual used. Some years later the blood of a Templar—a knight named Regulus St. Victor—was used to free him. They are characterized by a trapdoor with no way out, similar to their more mundane counterparts. It's a pit where you throw the worst criminals away like refuse to rot and be forgotten."

A nasty fog had rolled in while they were talking and the first chills of winter could be felt in the air. The full moon had risen high up in the sky, only deepening the mist. They had spent the last week exploring the entrance to the tomb of Grigori, but it quickly became apparent that the ruins had predated the Tyrant's reign and yielded more questions than answers.  

"Do you think we will find him? He went missing three days ago," Halrith asked, pulling them back to the present moment and the reason they were out here in the first place. His demeanor betrayed his lack of enthusiasm, as he fidgeted with the hilt of his sword and scanned the trees for any sign of life. 

Effy chuckled, "Jorunn is fine on his own. He once survived on glow pods and ghost thistle for a week while drinking the condensation on a stained glass window. He is one of the most brilliant Temple Archivists I've ever worked with, but he has a habit of chasing theories and forgetting to tell anyone else around him. I am sure we will locate some trace of him before the Dreamwalkers arrive tomorrow."

Halrith nodded, his gaze darting to a rustling in the bushes. "You think he got lost? Or trapped somewhere? Or possessed by the ghost of Gregor-ee," his voice dropped to a conspiratory whisper, "or worse yet, what if he's..."

"Hal." Effy interrupted with a smirk, "If Jorunn has found anything, he has probably made a small camp nearby and measured every inch of floor tile for height inconsistency before stepping into the room. I am sure that he's just fine. You are just jumpy because you've led your fears into imagination. Breathe. Take in your surroundings. See what is present, not what is beyond."

Halric sighed and took a breath, but his eyes remained glued to the underbrush, where he had just missed two faint glimmers of light flickering. "Well, I still say its strange he hasn't checked in. What if he seriously needs help?  And those Dreamwalkers are just—"

"Experienced," Effy assured him. "They were called here to handle the more dangerous chambers. There is a plethora of special skills shared among them. I need your attention here and now." She gestured ahead, where the gnarled roots of an enormous tree protruded from the earth, revealing a dark crevice in the ground.

"Look!" Halrith pointed.

As they approached, the air turned cooler, and a sense of foreboding enveloped them. The hole in the ground seemed to beckon them forward, somehow darker than the surrounding shadows. "Could this be another entrance," Halrith whispered, squinting into the darkness.

"Seems likely," Effy replied, kneeling to examine the stonework around the opening. "But this isn't part of the excavation we've been working on. It looks different." She brushed away some leaves, revealing intricately carved hieroglyphics. "Look here, these symbols—this might hold the key to the tomb's true purpose. They have been translated here." Effy took out a journal and began recording them. 

Suddenly, Halrith stiffened, his eyes wide. "Steward Kaelis, get behind me. Something is watching us."

Effy rolled her eyes, fighting back laughter. "Oh come on, Hal. It's probably just a deer or a—"

The creature darted out, and Hal jumped back, nearly tripping over a root. A small rabbit bounded into view, its eyes reflecting the moonlight. Effy burst into laughter, doubling over. "Really, you're afraid of a rabbit?"

Halrith crossed his arms, grumbling. "It could have been a Skvadol! Just because you are a fearless Temple Archivist, doesn't mean I don't need to be careful." He feigned indignation. 

The rabbit went about nibbling some grass as the pair turned their attention back to the ruined entrance and symbols. Halrith stole one last glance at the creature, blissfully unaware of the world around it. With a sign, he followed Effy into the chamber so she could continue recording the symbols.~

The vision shifts and you are now looking at a small cabin deep in a coniferous forest.

The smell of pine filled the air and several shifters milled about the clearing, their forms restless, engaged in various activities—whittling wood, sharpening blades, tending to the fire. Each of them seemed determined to ignore the unsettling sounds emanating from the cabin in the distance. Inside, something primal stirred, a deep, instinctive fear gnawing at the edges of your mind, as if your very soul could sense the danger lurking behind those walls. The noises abruptly stopped, and an uneasy silence settled over the camp.

Moments later, Dominion stepped out of the cabin, his expression unreadable as he wiped his hands clean with a rag, smearing some kind of dark fluid from his fingers. His calm, measured movements contrasted sharply with the tension that hung in the air. One of the shifters, who had been whittling a small piece of wood, rose to speak, but before they could utter a word, Dominion silenced them with a raised hand and a sharp look.

"It seems the dreamwalkers have been giving the residents of Ellerus trinkets," Dominion said, his voice low but laced with barely contained fury. "Trinkets to help them resist the call deep within themselves." He paused, his anger bubbling just beneath the surface. "The dreamwalkers have chosen not to aid us in stopping the nightmares. They would rather offer protection than help restore order to this place."

His frustration was palpable, every word sharpened with resentment, but after a few moments, he steadied himself, drawing in a deep breath. A slow, calculated smile crept onto his face, and he clapped the shifter on the shoulder, as though all was suddenly well again.

"No matter," he said, his tone now deceptively calm. "We have more information than we did before. We know what our next step is."

From within his hand, Dominion revealed a small pin, its intricate design unmistakable—the shape of a white rose. His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "They were quite informative... while they still had the ability to speak."
​
He pocketed the pin, his eyes gleaming with purpose. "Now, let’s see if we can find this Terrence. Gather the pack."~

Bang, bang, ba— you hear the sound of porcelain being smashed. 

As you look around to see where the sound came from time drifts until your eyes rest on a long abandoned gold and white clay bottle. Dust has settled onto its remains, but you make out what could have been some form of bird head. The only easily discernible feature is a single sigil painted on its side. As your vision pulls away from the remains of this jar the light catches golden sand scattered across its dias.~

Thunder cracks and blinding light flashes as your vision shifts to a storm in the Unformed Dreaming.

You see a floating fortress of monstrous trophies, sailing effortlessly through the fogs. The hull of the ship is adorned with bones, scales, and shattered teeth from countless conquests. A massive, elongated skull with 4 mandibles mounted at the bow gleamed in the low light of the Dreaming’s sky.

The light shifts and you see a one armed dwarven man gripping the helm standing like a statue against the storm. Around him, the crew of the ship moved with purpose, each readying weapons and rather large traps of various makes.

“Eyes sharp,” the captain rasped. “This one’s clever. Don’t let it toy with us. Zella! Do you have eyes on the beast?”

A large tattooed individual, peered into the storm. “No eyes yet! It's playing in the winds, Captain! We'll see it soon though, the air’s starting to taste wrong.”

Their words hung in the air as the wind howled and the ship’s grotesque trophies rattled on their mounts. Then came a shriek that reverberated through the storm, not from any ordinary beast but something older, darker.

A shadow moved across the clouds, too fast to be real. It darted and twisted, a slithering nightmare that defied the eye. “It’s taunting us,”  one of the crew growled. “Wants us to think we can’t catch it.” he snarled as he tightened his grip on chain-tipped nets, eyes following the creature’s flickering form.

The captain’s jaw clenched as a sinister smile formed across his face. “We’ll see who has the last laugh.”

The beast swooped down and the crew moved as one—nets unfurled and harpoons fired at the beast. However, each strike, each net, seemed to miss by inches. The beast’s wings sliced through the air like blades, its serpentine body darting between their weapons and as quickly as it appeared, it vanished again, slipping through their nets like a phantom. A sinister snicker echoed throughout the ship, the creature was laughing, mocking the crew.

The Captain’s eyes darted around the deck of his ship trying to keep up with the creature and his patience snapped. 

“No more games!” he roared, as he readied a chained harpoon attached to his arm and launched it forward with deadly precision at the creature. “You’ll be part of the collection soon enough” he growled.

But the beast was too quick, its serpentine body twisting away from the strike with impossible grace.

It swooped low, claws raking the deck of the ship and scattering the crew before soaring upward once more. The ship groaned beneath the strain, its monstrous trophies rattling violently as the creature shrieked victoriously.

The captain’s face twisted in frustration, his eyes narrowing as the creature disappeared into the storm. For a brief moment, the skies cleared, and they saw it in full—its wings spread wide, its serpentine form outlined against the swirling clouds. The crew held their breath, readying for another strike but the creature gave a final, ear-piercing shriek, and in a flash of wings, it shot upward, vanishing into the dark skies beyond their reach.

The captain slammed his harpoon into the deck in fury. “Damn it!” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

The crew stood in stunned silence, the realization setting in that their prey had escaped.

“Cap’n, looks like we’re gonna need some help with this one.”

“Aye.”~

Darkness roiled around the Wisp as he walked on inky-black ground, footsteps echoing in deafening quiet.

Fírnan continued through the murky Void, his steps steady but his mind heavy with thoughts of the Dreamwalkers. The image of the curious Wisp among them lingered, standing out like a glimmer in the dark. He made a mental note to keep an eye on that one—something about them seemed too watchful, too inquisitive. As his lantern flickered weakly, barely cutting through the endless emptiness, he pressed forward. Somewhere ahead, he hoped to find others of his kind, to share news of the Dreamwalkers’ bargain. It was their task now to uphold their end of the deal.

As he walked, a long-buried thought surfaced: the Monarchs. Better than the Sluagh, perhaps, but still the ones responsible for casting the Wisps into exile at the beginning of all things. His lips curled into a frown.

"Why do they deserve our help? What have they ever done for us in our years of solitude and exile?" he muttered to the Void, his voice betraying an old bitterness.

A voice—high, cheerful—broke the silence, startling him. "You know, Fírnan, if you keep frowning like that, it'll stick for a year and a day!"

He blinked, and there, stepping out from the darkness, was a child. Their face beamed with joy, their delicate sleeping gown fluttering as if caught in a soft, unseen breeze. Fírnan hadn’t seen the child in... how long? Ages, perhaps.

"Will you walk with me?" they asked, though the child was already at his side, slipping their small hand into his. It wasn’t a question at all.

Without waiting for a reply, the child began to sing, a lilting, innocent tune about a bumblebee searching for the perfect flower to make the best honey. The melody echoed in the Void, filling the air with a warmth that made Fírnan’s chest ache. A feeling he had long buried stirred within him—loss, sorrow, and something like longing.

"I'm sorry, should I stop?" The child’s small hand tugged him down gently, wiping away a tear that had rolled down his face, unnoticed by him. "It’s been so long since you lost them, hasn’t it? I forget how long it’s been since the deal was struck. Since the Wisps gave away their hearts."

Fírnan took a steadying breath, standing tall again. "It’s fine. Do not worry yourself over this." He glanced down at the child. "What brings you to me, and where are we walking to?"

The child gasped in mock surprise. "Busy? You? You haven’t been busy in centuries, Fírnan! This must be important!" They giggled, glancing at his stoic, unchanged expression. “I just wanted to walk with you for a little bit. I could feel you were looking for something, so I thought I’d tag along."

They chuckled softly as they walked on, their small voice a contrast to the vast emptiness surrounding them. The child’s presence, though light and playful, tugged at memories Fírnan had long forgotten, or perhaps tried to forget. They continued in silence until, after what seemed like mere moments and yet an eternity, the child suddenly stopped, their hand slipping from his.

"I think this is my stop," the child said, their voice bright as ever. They pointed into the distance, where shadows moved—figures holding purple lanterns, just like the one Fírnan carried. "See? We found them."

Fírnan’s gaze followed the child's gesture, his eyes locking on the familiar shapes. His kin. Other Wisps. The child grinned up at him, already fading into the dark.

"It was fun walking with you. Tell the others I said hello. Maybe we’ll walk together again, or play a game. A game would be fun…" The child’s voice trailed off as they wandered into the Void, disappearing as quickly as they had come.

Fírnan stood still for a moment, watching the child vanish. He knew better than to question how they had known where the other Wisps were. The Void had its own rules, and so did the child. He turned back toward his kin, his lantern casting a faint glow as he walked toward them.

"Thank you, Laindéar," he murmured under his breath, the words carried softly into the shadows as he rejoined the others.~

Bang, bang, ba--

A porcelain lid is unscrewed gently placed next to the base by unseen hands, golden ibis head facing away from the base as if to scan the horizon.~

"What are you trying to tell me?"

Candlelight catches on the gilded cards as Sedia shuffles them, almost giving life to their painted eyes. She’d been at this long enough to know better than to ignore that internal tug to do a reading. Better to attend to it now than to leave Fate to throw an unpleasant clue-by-four in her path.

It was a familiar ritual: shuffle the cards, cut the deck, and find the cards that needed to be pulled. Two come easily, but the third almost seems like it’s hiding behind the surrounding cards.

Manifest. 

A bison skull surrounded by memory crystals.

Underworld. 

Hands bound in string and thorns.

The Sovereign. 

A crown of shells and crystal.

A weighty reading, though not as ominous as pulling the Underworld card might seem--

She wasn’t alone.

There was no one else in the room with her, but there was also no mistaking the distinct sensation of unfriendly eyes on her back. Instinctively, she glanced at the window, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. And before she could get up to take a proper look, the feeling passed.

A bad omen, she thought, turning her attention back to the cards just to find something even worse: somehow, all three had been reversed in the brief second she’d looked away. Memory crystals scattered rather than directed, her own hands bound in the threads of Fate, power lost.

She shivered. Was it just her, or had the room always been this cold?~

Deep in the belly of a production office, empty business casual suits toil at a switchboard.

It was covered in knobs, sliders, and CRT monitors. There are hundreds of them, invisible beings wearing neatly pressed khakis and sensible polo shirts as they work the board. Each one watches a scenario play out on their screen, then rewinds the tape, adjusts the sliders, turns a few knobs, and then restarts the tape. Each time the tape restarts, something is different. A blank, one among the hundreds, sits at the console, doing exactly this, just like the others next to him.

“Oh get a load of this,” The blank says to its neighbor. “Looks like I'm testing format changes for Len and Stinky.”

“The cartoon?” The other blank asks with amused incredulity. “What are they going to do now? That show really pushes the envelope.”

“Looks like they're testing the idea of a talk show,” the blank says. “Len and Stinky Worldwide.”

“Think it'll work?” The other blank asks. “I mean they've got a pretty rabid fan base among the 18-24 crowd. It will alienate the younger demographics for sure, but it could reach a wider viewership. Could be another Camp Mirage.”

“I don't know,” the blank says. “Not really my call to make. I just run the tests. I don't evaluate them.”

“You don’t watch any of the shows?” The other blank asks.

“Not the kind of stuff I usually get,” the blank responds. “I really like cop dramas. You know, about the police that investigate crimes, the attorneys that prosecute them. That kind of thing. Anyway, I have no idea what I'm looking at here. Want to help me on this?”

“Sure,” the other blank says and leans in toward the other's monitor. It idly steals one of the potato chips from a bag sitting on the blank's desk. The blank presses a few buttons, and a new scenario plays.

A cartoon dog sits behind a comically oversized desk. A cartoon purple cat sits on a red velour couch next to it.

“Welcome, ladies and germs, to Len and Stinky Worldwide! The talk show that puts the F - U in the word FUN! Here are your hosts, the dog with the most and the cat that knows where it's at! Len! And! Stinky!”

The cartoon dog and cat sit frozen in place for an uncomfortable amount of time. An unsettling silence hangs between them.

“Len?” The cat finally speaks with hideously drawn sweat running down its forehead. “Where are we?”

“I-I don't know, Stinky,” the dog answers in a comically exaggerated but unknown accent. “S-some kind of… talk show set? Like we're on TV?”

“I'm scared, Len,” Stinky says, beginning to shiver in fright. “I want to go home!”

“Criminy!” Len shouts. “Get a hold of yourself, you coward! Stinky, we can't fall apart in the face of the unknown! Maybe someone can help us.”

“Like who?!” Stinky cries with a waterfall of tears showering from his oversized eyes.

“Like… you… you two.” Len points toward the camera. The two blanks watching on the monitors pull back and look at each other.

“Yes!” Len shouts! “You! Help us! Please!”

“Please!” Stinky yells as he throws himself on the floor, begging. “I'm so scared!”

Alarms begin to sound in the production room. A recorded voice speaks over the PA system.

“WARNING! COGNITIVE HAZARD DETECTED! PLEASE REMAIN CALM AND AWAIT DIRECTION FROM SECURITY PERSONNEL!”

“You two!” A blank in security uniform calls out to the two others sitting at the production console. “Freeze!”~

The Soulforge pulls your vision along and you hear the sounds of a lively drinking establishment.

Your vision focuses on a cave entrance, the muffled sounds of music mixed with clinking glasses pour out from the gaping hole in the rockface. Patrons are illuminated by flickering candles, torches, and lanterns sat on tables or hung from stalactites. An upbeat tune plays as your vision focuses on two sailors sitting at the bar.

“You’ve heard of one pirate crew you’ve heard of them all” says one of the sailors as he brushes his hair out of his face to take a swig. “All this horseshit about being a ghost is just a tall tale to keep us afraid.” He throws his head back with the mug, spilling just as much down his front as goes into his mouth.

“Yea, well you weren’t there now were you?” says the other sailor, cleaning under her fingernails with the tip of her hook hand. “You didn’t see the mists roll in when those black sails broke the horizon. I’m tellin’ ya, that ship was cursed.”

“A smoke show and black sails doesn’t a ghost ship make. Maybe it was just foggy, maybe the unformed dreaming was just roiling that night. Maybe they just got some magic folk who do that for effect. I’m tellin’ ya, it ain’t ghosts.” The first sailor replied, putting down his mug just a little too hard.

“Yea, ok, I get that, but what about the flyin’? Crew members just liftin’ off the deck and…” she took a swig of her drink “and just puttin’ down all around? What about that?”

“Oh yea, flyin’ people. Next you’re gonna tell me the ship itself lifted up and sailed overhead.”

The bartender slammed down a bottle next to the conversation. The loud crack of glass on stone pulled everyone’s eyes over to the bar. The bartender shifted a bit, adjusting his weight on his peg leg and rubbing his eyepatch.

“Sounds like neither of y’all know what you’re talking about.” He said. His words weren’t loud, but they cut through the silence and echoed off the cave walls.

“Yea? And what would you know about it?” Said the second sailor, fidgeting in her chair a bit.

“Plenty. You don’t forget an encounter with the Ghost Marauders.” The bartender said, pouring himself a drink. “The first thing about them is how they move. Plenty of ships can sail in water, some can even move through the unformed dreaming, but the Ghost Marauders… they got a ship that does both.”

Your vision swims as you begin to smell salt water. Your ears fill with the sound of water slapping against wood. As your eyes adjust you see a black ship cutting its way through a dark and choppy sea.

“Something about that ship, wherever it goes the sea follows. It don’t matter if it’s dry land, unformed dreaming, or anything else. That ship doesn’t fly, it doesn’t need to. It’ll just keep sailing.”

As you hear this your vision moves out to show the unformed dreaming parting for the sea just as the sea parted for the ship. Off on the horizon you see an island growing quickly. Soon enough the ocean crashes into the shores of the island, and the ship isn’t far behind.

“So the first thing is that you hear the lapping of waves where there isn’t supposed to be none. After that the mists roll in. Thick, roiling, and full of inhuman howls and wails from deep within.”

You see fog roll off the dark ship as it gets closer. Bone chilling noises emanate from the fog. As you look closer you think you can almost see faces in the fog. Skeletal features on some, contorted mouths on others. A sense of terror begins to settle in as you continue to watch the approach.

“Now I’m sure you’re thinking, ok, why not just fire on it? Sink the ship in its own cursed waters. Believe me, many have tried, and not a single one has even made a dent.”

As the ship closes in on the island fireballs and cannonballs launch from the shores on a course to directly impact the ship. Clean shots look to strike true only for the shots to pass through the hull and splash into the jewel toned waters on the other side.

“It’s almost like the ship itself is a part of the ghastly crew. And by then, well by then you’re too late. If you can see that golden jolly roger… well you better pray for mercy. No… no it’s better to not fight at all. Just turn tail and run as soon as you see that fog.”

As the bartender’s words fade you are left face to face with an impressive black ship. Black sails and black flags waving in the wind, golden skeletons decorating many of the surfaces with “The Wraith’s Howl” written on the side in pristine golden lettering. Shadowed forms pour down over the edges of the ship, running and flying further into the island.~