Where dreams are part of reality, and the forsaken walk the halls…
The dream was sustenance.
It was fleeting, yes, but it gave him a sense of mortality again.
The phantoms drifted through the portals. One moment here, another there. A starving child gifted a loaf of bread. A maiden weeping at her betrayal. A grandfather blessing his grandchild’s marriage.
Time was time was time.
A loop without measure.
It ebbed. It flowed. It circled back.
And forevermore, so it would be.
And yet the feeling gnawed at him. After all, it was not his fault.
He would never kill her.
Not ever. Not ever.
He whispered it again. Not ever.
The words turned sour in his mouth. Not… ever.
No. No.
Not ever.
All he did was dance and sing, perhaps pour some wine. Merriment is king, they say.
Do they not?
The portal flickered.
A purple radiance bloomed unlike any he had ever seen, whether upon the mortal coil or the dream-plane.
He could just about make it out. A familiar face. One he used to serve. One he used to… serve.
Serve?
The dreamer’s scream pierced the veil of unreality. It warped his mind, his soul. Organs hung outside his body, eyeballs nested within entrails. Teeth ruptured through his heart, and his jester’s hat entwined his soft brain.
Read the full tale and realise the dream of Act 1 in the Scriptorium →
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