My journey led me northward. The road seemed endless, Winding ever higher Through the mountains.
By the time I reached the range’s summit, The sun had vanished Behind a veil of grey clouds.
Thick mists swallowed the land below, Erasing valleys, Forests, And distant horizons.
The world became a realm Of stone and silence.
Yet I continued onward. Then the trees appeared. Not living trees, But their skeletal remains, Rising from the mist Like black cracks In a sea of white light.
Their twisted branches reached skyward, As though clawing at unseen heavens. And as I walked among them, The mountain grew silent still.
Yet I was not alone. At the edge of my vision, Creatures loomed among the trunks and mist.
Tall. Inhumanly thin. Deathly white.
Their forms concealed by drifting vapours, Their faces smooth and featureless, Save for a single glossy black eye, And a large gaping black mouth, Set within each pale visage.
They swayed slowly, Like trees moving in a distant wind. At least twelve feet tall, Their unnaturally long arms Hung almost to the ground, While black-stained fingers Twitched like restless claws.
They appeared naked, Genderless, And ancient.
As I passed, They made strange sounds amongst themselves. A deep muffled hissing, As though exchanging secrets In a forgotten language.
Each Watcher observed me. Then withdrew once more Into the mist.
Eventually I reached the summit. The air had grown bitterly cold. The wind carried an arctic chill, And the clouds parted around me.
I stood above the world. Far below, The continent stretched toward the horizon. Beyond it lay the Ocean of Dreams. And there, Upon the distant peninsula, The lighthouse still shone.
For a moment, I forgot the mountain, The mist, And the creatures. I stood transfixed by the view.
Behind me, The hissing grew louder. Rising together, Voice upon voice, Until it became a dreadful crescendo.
Lost in wonder, I failed to hear The soft approach of bare feet.
Only at the final moment Did I turn. To find myself face to face With one of the Watchers. Its black eye reflected my own terror.
It struck me with a large granite club, The blow silenced my scream before it escaped. Darkness came instantly. Light vanished. Pain vanished. Everything vanished.
Then I found myself drifting above the scene.
Weightless. Silent. Below,
My broken body lay upon the mountain. The Watchers gathered around it. Methodically. Patiently. As though performing an ancient ritual.
I watched as they dismembered And fed upon my remains.
And I awoke. Far away from the mountain. Back in the Land of the Waken.
“Come, my love, let us dream,” she said, As together we rested our weary heads. She took my hand within her own, And led me where the dream winds roamed.
With eyes closed to the waking land, We wandered forth, still hand in hand. The world behind us slipped away, Consumed by night’s enchanted sway.
The moon hung low above the sea, A silver lantern shining free, While countless stars like diamonds gleamed Across the sky where dreamers dreamed.
We walked along forgotten shores, Past moonlit dunes and ancient moors. Strange flowers glowed with spectral light, Their petals bright against the night.
She led me through the meadow grass, Where rivers mirrored stars like glass. Beneath old trees we made our way, Their branches keeping dawn at bay.
“Do not be afraid,” she said, As shadows danced where dream paths led. “Nothing here can bring you harm, While you remain within my arms.”
So deeper still our journey wound, Through silent realms where peace was found. Past faded dreams and memories old, And fears that once had held me cold.
At last we reached a grassy height That overlooked the Sea of Night. The Ocean of Dreams stretched far below, Its waves adorned with lunar glow.
Together there we sat awhile, The moon reflected in her smile. And for a time the world stood still, As silver clouds crossed vale and hill.
She rested softly by my side, While gentle waves embraced the tide. No sorrow stirred, no shadows crept, The dreaming world itself had slept.
But soon the eastern sky grew bright, And dawn approached to end the night. She squeezed my hand and softly smiled, As morning stirred beyond the wild.
“We will return,” she whispered low, Before she turned to silver glow. The dream dissolved, the vision fled, And morning sunlight crowned my bed.
Yet even now I sometimes feel The warmth her gentle kiss made real. And when the moon rides high above, I dream once more of her, and love.
High upon the peninsula, the lighthouse stands, A beacon in the night, guiding dreamers From the Ocean of Dreams to the continent beyond.
The countless colours reflected upon the ocean’s surface Dance across its brilliant white walls, While a turquoise beam sweeps through the darkness, Like a great celestial hand pointing the way.
At its summit sits the Lighthouse Keeper, Ancient, grey, and blindfolded. Seated upon an ornate golden armchair, He keeps an eternal vigil over the shore.
Below, countless sleepwalkers emerge from the beach, Wandering through the dunes in silent procession, Preparing for whatever journey awaits them In the lands beyond.
Far out upon the dark waters, Beyond the reach of the lighthouse’s guiding light, The great serpent rises from the depths. Its immense form breaks the surface before vanishing once more beneath the waves, Hunting the unwary and the unfortunate.
Those claimed by the serpent are carried elsewhere, Swallowed whole and delivered to darker realms: The Black Forest, where unseen creatures stalk the shadows; The frozen mountain ranges, where bitter winds mourn across the peaks; Or the Swamps of Despair, where hope slowly sinks beneath the mire.
Such is the nature of the dream world. No dreamer can know what awaits beyond the next horizon.
Will they witness the morning cranes Gathering in fields of gold beneath the dawn? Or will they meet the dripping fangs Of the Devourers lurking within the forest gloom?
In the Ocean of Dreams, The lighthouse may guide the way, But it cannot promise the destination.
On the cold hill side I lay, The cries of battle fading, My tired body readied to dream, My thoughts drift beyond this hill, Beyond my armour, Beyond this weary body, Deep into memories, Of warm sunshine upon green fields, Silver-mooned evenings among the trees, Of a soft-lipped kiss, Of the ocean, And of distant ships, As I lay a starry night rolled in, The birds fell silent, And my heart beat no more.
The old wooden rowboat creaks, Waves whisper against the hull, Where a lone dreamer sits, Blindfolded and anxious.
A great disturbance breaks the silence, Something immense rising from the dark water. The black-scaled body of Grimvael, The Serpent of the Dreaming Sea, Circles the tiny vessel.
An enormous green eye breaks the surface, Fixing its gaze upon the dreamer, Who cannot look back. For a moment, The sea falls still. Then the serpent dives beneath the waves, And with a gentle thud, Its mighty tail nudges the boat onward.
Far ahead, A tall white lighthouse gleams, Moonlight shining upon its weathered stone. At its summit, A turquoise beacon turns, Casting its light across the sea. The startled dreamer’s hands tighten in his lap, Unsure of where he travels, Or what awaits beyond the darkness.
Yet the boat continues, Guided by unseen currents, Until at last it reaches the shore. As the keel settles upon the sand, A quiet realization comes over him.
Perhaps the fears he has carried for so many years Have not been steering his journey at all. And in the wake of Grimvael’s passing, A strange reassurance remains, That everything may yet be well, And that his journey, Though uncertain, Can continue.
