Zadown

Two days earlier. No sun shone here in the depths of the Void, and the only stars were the constellations of the planes, the crystal that marked the barriers between them and the Astral giving off faint, pearly light. The Dreamer floated before one such wall, its immaculate surface reflecting him and the distant lanterns of other planes beyond him. He felt peaceful standing there in the nothing, in his own element. The Lost Paths and the darkness between – his playground, his only true home. The cold, airless desert was deadly to most but it did not hold any dangers for him. He let his memories take control for a second, allowed older and older visions from his history to flood into his mind as a reminder why he was doing all this: Beneath them the mightiest armies the Dreamer had ever seen or heard about had amassed, all bound together by the thin golden strands of Grail magic. More demons than the Chaos captains could ever keep under their control without help, creatures not normally seen on battlefields at all; stauries, khârzalarians, z'Ergs, akhallaukhs, things loaned from nightmares and the depths of the deeper layers of Abyss. The Lost Paths themselves buckled under the weight and power of Disorder – the miasma of Change was so thick it irritated even him, a Duke of Chaos. My army. The thought made the Dreamer smile, the scars on his face dancing and the dark shadows that clouded his eyes dispersing. Jankiize, who stood next to him, sensed his mirthless grin through their link and turned to look at him, a frown on her beautiful face. “What is it, Uncle?” The Dreamer's grin widened before it vanished. Looking as solemn as befitted the Supreme Commander of the Chaos armies, he leaned towards his ward to whisper words nobody else should hear. “Th' Chaos'll lose this battle, m'lady.” - “Mornin’, Li’tl Princess. How are ye feelin’?” Jankiize did not look up. She would recognize that voice, low and hard to understand because of the peculiar planewalker accent, anywhere. She did whisper back, fighting against the nausea and tiredness, hugging herself. “What happened, uncle? I don’t feel … well.” “Ye don’t remember, girl? I already told ya once, Jankiize. Jaq’s spell tore at yer spirit worse than th’ shard o’ ice at yer chest. Can ye recall anythin’, neh?” “I … I’m tired, uncle. Let me sleep.” - “Charge! Fo’ th’ Grail! Fo’ th’ Chaos!” The mortals replied with a thousand different voices, a cacophony of war cries, and raised their own weapons. Minor artefacts, heirlooms of great power, swords and axes and maces forged of adamant, black iron, dragon’s bones or blue steel – they all were set alight with golden fire. The blessings of the Grail surged through the army, bringing strength and bloodlust and rage as it came. The heroes dashed forward, spittle and sweat flying, golden images of glory shining in their eyes. The Dreamer protected himself and Jankiize again with the emerald green wards and raised them up to clear the way for the mortals, who rushed forward below them. The mortal heroes also penetrated the planar crystal, and for a moment it was silent in the Void, peaceful on this side of the planar barrier. Then the last four of the army, a planewalker and a mortal girl with her bodyguards, entered the pocket plane. - Farewell, Mistress of the Paths. This time I could not withhold my blow. He gazed at the heart he cradled in both hands for a moment, then sighed and dropped it to the floor. The Dreamer stepped over it and over the fallen mage, walking towards the Grail standing alone and without a guardian on the altar, swimming in the pulsing golden light. He reached forward to grab the artefact with his bright red hands, washed with Sherishsen's blood. And grabbed only empty, chilling air, his fingers passing through the golden cup as if it was an icy mirage. He tried again, his triumphant smile turning into dismay, only to grasp freezing, empty air again with both of his hands, and he realized he could feel the Grail's warm glow growing fainter, more distant. "NOOOOOOOOOO!" The Dreamer yelled in anguish and tried to grab the cup again and again, every time only grasping cold air, even that getting warmer and warmer by every desperate try. The cup faded now rapidly, turning ghostly, and finally vanished utterly with a loud roar that shook the small temple. - The tall fiendish woman in front of him smiled, showing her sharp, long canines, light dancing on her blood-red teeth. "Mark of Kali ... I can almost taste the irony of that, immortal boy." She licked her lips with her forked black tongue. "Yes, we could remove that, godslayer, if you agree to do what we asked you to do the last time." Some part of him realized that he had strayed countless years ago, when he utilized chaos to help him against the dream god and when his eyes had changed, and the truth spread from that point, filling his entire mind. "I will do it, Chaos. As soon as I can get rid of my followers." - A bolt of energy sprang forth from his pointing finger, only to be blocked by a shield conjured up by the god; meanwhile, another attack and counterattack was going on in the realm of the mind. Fighting by Order wasn't working, not with all the different ways of attack, all the different combats going on at the same time, and so he gave more room for Chaos .. and more room .. and more... His eyes changed color. And he drowned himself in Chaos, seeing that as the only way to win. One by one, he felt the restrictions imposed on him by Order vanish, and new avenues of attack and defense opened - his mind rearranged itself in mere seconds, and at the same time he let his magic flow by intuition, changing the field of battle in one wild surge. - The planewalker nodded to the earlier version of himself, acknowledging their decisions as the only possibilities back then, absolving them of everything and taking their burdens upon himself. With an airless sigh he stepped through the planar crystal and into the world.

Dawn was obscured by the sharp, snowy mountain peaks. Sun proclaimed the start of a new day indirectly, lighting up the few thin wisps of clouds floating lazily on the sky that was turning from the night time's color of infinitely deep dark blue to the crystal clear cerulean of the early day. The jungle ended nearby, its immense green bulk still easily visible from the pilgrims' lofty camp. It had a different quality here, but its end seemed abrupt, a thick and tall wave of life frozen in time before striking the rocky shores of the foothills. Not unlike a real sea the jungle had claimed its own and the number of the pilgrims was now noticeably lower than it had been. Some had turned back, of course, but almost equal number was now under unadorned stone markers in the depths of the pestilent, poisonous jungle. Those who remained were more determined, more experienced. They went about their morning chores in the cool, thin air with a careful efficiency of motion, not wanting to waste an ounce of energy. A little way off from the main camp sat the Dreamer on a tall rock, his black robe and staff visible for miles to every direction. At the base of the stone formation sat a young man, sitting in the same posture as the much taller planewalker but concentrating on eating his meager breakfast instead of meditating. The planewalker himself stared at the next stage of the journey: an immense gouge in the earth, a canyon of such titanic proportions it did not seem natural. Across it was strung a thin bridge, glinting in the first rays of the sun that was finally reaching high enough to show its face. It seemed like a silken strand of some spider, not meant for anything as heavy as humans. Beyond it stood the snow-covered mountains, jagged and sharp against the clear morning sky, rising sun outlining their edges with its fire. Nothing has challenged me so far. If the vows included in the prayer would not bind me into these fragile mortals, I'd been here a week ago. Well, perhaps that bridge has a guardian or a trap of some sort... He stood up and leaped down, landing softly despite the uneven ground. His mortal shadow stuffed the last remains of his breakfast into his mouth and got up hastily, but the Dreamer paid no heed to the young man. The planewalker set forth with his usual long and purposeful gait, the mortal scampering to keep up. The youngster's skin was the color of heavy tan, as was common here, and his eyes brown, short hair black. He did not carry as much as the older pilgrims and even his staff was short and light, marking him as one who was in spiritual balance to begin with but wanted to go through the pilgrimage to attain spiritual perfection. Suddenly the Dreamer stopped mid-step and the young man almost collided with his back, stumbling to keep upright on the broken and rocky ground. The planewalker turned and his hand shot out, grasping the lapels of the young man's robes. After he had lifted his catch to be on the same level as himself, the Dreamer spoke with his deep, carefully measured yet heavily accented voice. “Ya? Why 'ave ye been followin' me for th' last few days, boy?” “Please, master! I mean nothing bad! I just wanted to stay where it is safest in this pilgrimage, master.” A rainbow of colors swirled through the Dreamer's eyes as he stared at the frightened boy, then a smile crept to his face, and when his eyes settled on a light yellow hue, he laughed aloud. “Hahaha! Safest, ya? 'Tis may be so, as long as all ye 'ave to fear are th' beasts of th' jungle. Follow me, then, but don't call me master for I shall not teach ye a thing, mortal boy. Aye, follow Lord Dreamer, ha!” The young man stared at the shifting eyes, mesmerized at the way they changed from light yellow to emerald green, then glanced down. “Thank you, mas... lord. Err.” “What?” “Could you lower me down, lord?” The Dreamer nodded gravely and set the mortal down slowly and carefully, turned away while nodding again to empty air and walked away towards the main camp and the narrow bridge with the flustered pilgrim in tow.

Two months earlier. The warm light of the fire gave the room a homely feeling that the old and scruffy furniture did nothing to dispel. Faint stench of sulfur and smoke lingered in the air as a haze that softened the few edges that time had not polished to oblivion. The Dreamer sat on an unadorned, nondescript chair, the quiet sounds of his constantly changing armor mixed with the friendly crackle of the fireplace creating an odd yet relaxing ambient noise. His unruly grey air had been set free and formed a disorderly halo around his ruined face. The object that normally held it in check, the Dreamer's black iron crown, rested in the planewalker's scarred hands that turned it over and over as he examined it with washed-out blue eyes. Behind a desk, his booted feet firmly on the pitted and gouged tabletop, his chair tilted back in jaunty angle, sat Phacyra. He wasn't quite as tall as the Dreamer, but was almost equally thin with sharp features, stubby nose and short black hair, deep blue eyes and yellow-stained teeth. He wore a full suit of black and brown demon-skin leather, its surface worn so smooth and glossy it reflected the glow of the fireplace. Phacyra toyed with a unadorned but sharp dagger, tossing it into air and catching it with his nimble hands without paying much attention to the dangerous juggling. Eventually he grew bored and stuck the dagger into the desk, demonstrating the reason for the numerous scars the table bore. The younger-looking planewalker set his chair down and gave the Dreamer a slightly worried look. “Ya?” The Dreamer looked up from his seemingly pointless chore of staring at the wicked-looking black crown. “Hmm?” Exasperation crept into Phacyra's voice. “Just tell me what ye need this time, m'lord Wodzan. 'Tis may be 'ard for careless traveler like ye to comprehend, but I actually do not 'ave th' time to sit like this for a few weeks t' wait for ye to remember what ye were 'bout to say. Not t' mention nothin' is hardly that profound that it needs to be mulled over for days.” Swirling green appeared in the depths of the Dreamer's eyes, filling them as he spoke, his attention finally focusing back to the present day and location. “Yer correct, m'lord Phacyra, an' I apologize for wastin' yer time. Th' reason I'm back so soon is, yet 'gain, that I am in a need of a tiny favor.” He quit turning the crown around, something he had kept on doing even after his gaze had focused elsewhere, and without warning threw it to Phacyra. Phacyra caught it reflexively and immediately let it fall to the desk like it had been searingly hot or made of poisonous snakes. Instead of voicing his objection, he merely gave the Dreamer a questioning look. “I cannot carry that where I go next, brother. It has been tempered by th' fires of th' Grail Wars, infused with my battle rage an' raw Chaos, all things that are only on my way where I am headin'. If ye could hold t' it, m'lord, I'd add it to the astronomically long list of unwritten favors I owe ya.” “Sure, that should not be a problem, Wodzan. As long as yer usual crowds of admirers, ya know hordes of enraged major gods, furious Fates an' dozens of demon stampedes, are not after it, it should be safe 'ere. Now, where'd ye be headin' where carryin' an artefact o' war is ... a hindrance?” A strange smile appeared on the Dreamer's face, as if he was laughing to some joke only he could appreciate. “Artefact o' war an' of Chaos, m'lord Phacyra. Ye might say I am abdicatin' my position as a Duke of Chaos, or at least tryin' to. My chains are longer than yers, an' they allow me more movement, but I resent them neverth'less.” Phacyra nodded solemnly, took the crown and stood up to set it on a high shelf in the gloomy corner of the room. He sat back, removed his dagger from the table and weighted it in his hand with a thoughtful look on his face. “Ye might be out of th' picture then, if I do need help with my own chains?” “I'm 'fraid so, brother. I have no clear vision of how low my strength'll ebb if I succeed, or even if I fail. Th' gatekeepers of this path would not tell, yet it is somethin' I must do, an' must do now before I entangle myself deeper into th' affairs of Chaos.” Phacyra nodded again, then shrugged. “We'll worry 'bout th' tomorrow when tomorrow comes, brother.”

Thick golden sunlight battered the topmost layers of the canopy and cascaded all the way to the ground in narrow waterfalls of bright honey. The endless leaves trembling in the breeze made the golden light dance and tainted it with their vivid green, making the sunlight that did reach the distant bottom of the shadowy jungle bearable instead of painful. The forest breathed and sang with a million voices, gave out a million scents, changed in shape after each mile while staying basically same, each new vista sharing the overall shape with each other but showing new wonders for those with sharp eyes. Through that kaleidoscope of stimulus walked a long progression of drab creatures, their off-white robes and tan bags of luggage looking out of place in this world of green. The first few swung long, curved swords that cut through the tissue of the jungle, making way for the rest of them, all walking a languid pace meant to last through days and weeks and months of wearisome travel. On the right side of the narrow line of people was a river, too far to be seen but close enough for the guides and hunters to sense from the subtle signs of the forest. On the left the jungle stretched out to gods knew how far – maps certainly did not show where it ended. Occasionally, the pilgrims passed eroded stone markers that showed where some of their predecessors had met an unfortunate end in the humid embrace of the jungle, bitten by poisonous snakes or spiders or mauled by the hard-to-see mirrorbeasts, or perhaps succumbed to diseases or injuries during this first stage of the long journey. This time there had been surprisingly few of any accidents involving the beasts of the forest, as if something was keeping them away. The hunters remarked on the fact of animals avoiding the pilgrims in a larger radius than normal, and when they whispered on it they turned surreptitiously to stare at the tall stranger in black, carrying staff of lead taller still, submerged in some lofty thoughts disconnected with the unpleasant realities the rest of the travelers had to content themselves with. I wonder if the locals understood a word of the Prayer of Long Trail – it was hard to believe at first, but it was written in the Old Planewalker Prime language, the one language that our ancient translator-enchantments keep pure even when we talk it, devoid of our accent. It was not as if it was aimed at mortals, either. All those elaborate vows about not using our “powers that bend reality and tempt fate” during this long walk. What challenges lie on this trail for us immortals to necessitate such a vow? A cry from the point of the column brought the Dreamer out of his reverie. Still absorbed in the complexities of possible threats, halfway between abstract and real, he assumed his battle-stance, his eyes black with yellow veins. Never one to shy away from danger, he ran forward leaping and dodging the other pilgrims with immortal speed, somehow managing to keep his long staff from entangling itself or braining anybody, the unearthly dash nevertheless causing a series of startled yells go off in his wake. Too occupied with the possibility of danger and the difficulties of managing his unwieldy cudgel, he forgot to pay attention to his black cowl. It took the opportunity to fall to his back, revealing his dirty grey hair streaming free in the wind of his passage, his scarred face and his inhuman eyes. The planewalker landed from a long leap but saw no angry celestials, vengeful gods or raging archdemons, and he shook his head to clear the spiderwebs of bloodlust from his mind. When he opened his lusterless grey eyes again what he did see was one of the current boys on clearing duty writhing on the ground, his leg bleeding from a bite-wound, already swollen in a ghastly way. His youthful face was deathly white under the tan, the features locked in a grimace of unbearable pain, further screams held behind jaws locked by the poison. The basic scent of the jungle bottom, of earth and a thousand flowers, was mixed with the smells of sap and blood and the sharp tang of fear. An uneasy silence fell on the scene, only broken by the weakening whimperings of the boy. The mortals gathered at the site of the accident shared a glance that pleaded somebody else to say something, to talk to this living power in their midst, but the displeased look on the planewalker's mutilated face discouraged even the most brave of them, bright yellow suns of annoyance clearing the grey mist from his gaze. “Save yer breath, mortals. 'Tis within my power t' heal him, ya, but not within my will. Th' Prayer of Long Trail stays my hand – blame yer Lady Balance if ye must.” The uncertainty broke and the mood changed abruptly, some of the pilgrims trying to make him change his decision before being swiftly dissuaded from pestering the Dreamer by his smoldering glares, most accepting the fate of the dying boy, the boy in question already walking through Death's door and abandoning his grip of this world. His became the first stone marker of this pilgrimage – first, but nowhere near the last.

Four months earlier. Harsh pure light coming from no apparent single source painted the ascetic chamber in simple colors: black wood, grey stone, white walls of some paper-like substance. The Dreamer and his armor were a shocking splash of rusty color amidst the shades of grey. He was kneeling on one side of a low table, opposite to an old wizened woman in white robes, the mixture of dried and fresh blood on the bandage that covered where her eyes should've been echoing the hues of the planewalker's chaos armor. Other than the wooden table and the two immortals, there were only four short pillars of stone in the room, each of varying height, each holding a different abstract stone sculpture on top of it. “So you have finally seen that your work under the Everchanging Star is done, my boy?” “'Tis far easier t' see than to realize, sage Ammûrn – I never felt completely at home with th' politics an' the fanatics, whose devotion to th' cause of one-dimensional, corrosive chaos was akin to th' worship that mortals reserve for their accursed gods. However, when Chaos binds ya to 'er service, she does it with heavy chains of given power an' expect'd servitude.” The old woman nodded. “Yes, nothing comes for free in this world, not even for those who are beyond the petty struggles of the mortals. However, if you will set yourself on the path away from Chaos and back to the harder to see and lighter chains of Balance, you can reach your goal.” Absolute silence fell between the two after these words spoken in the sage's soft voice, no ambient noise, not even anything as faint and mundane as breathing, breaking it. The air stood still and the light remained unwavering – the only change in the room was the color of the Dreamer's eyes, their green shifting towards blue through all the colors of the sea, then the blue deepening and darkening as if the eyes had been open portals sinking deeper into an ocean. Time raced past the two undying ones like a stream past two rocks, neither caring to count such insignificant moments as hours. At last the Dreamer blinked his almost black eyes and spoke with a deep, hoarse voice. “How much'd I need to pay? An' how much of my current power I'd retain, sage?” “If you have to ask those questions, you are not ready yet.” She shook her head sadly and started to rise up but was halted by the planewalker's weak gesture of surrender. “So be it, then. Show me th' path, Wise One.”

The onset of twilight had woken up the whole population of the town, both the permanent residents and the travellers, stirred them into a motion like a stick that disturbs an anthill. The huge horns had sounded right after the malevolent red eye of the sun had vanished, calling loudly and mournfully the pilgrims to wake up. Now in the rapidly darkening night they called again with a slightly different note, torches being kindled by the dozens as a response to this call that ordered the travellers to gather and take the steps that lead upwards, to the hill and to the Temple of First Rites. Air stirred as well and swept away some of the worst stink of humanity, the twin effects of the wakening wind and the vanished sun making the subjective temperature plummet rapidly. When the third note was blown, the great pilgrim-snake started slithering from the town to the main temple, a worm made of people and their baggage, torches aloft. Their staves hit the ground with a synchronized drumming noise that tried to drown the nature's symphony exhaled by the jungle: nocturnal hunters and their nocturnal prey shouting their hunting challenges and warning cries, rotting fruits and flowers of exquisite fragrences or horrible stenches giving that breath the distinctive, rich scent of life. Somewhere near the end of the teeming mass of mortals walked a tall man slowly, carrying an improbably long staff of lead and iron. It was the land of miracles and demi-gods, so people gave him only cursory glances, not wanting to draw any attention back to themselves. If a demi-god had sinned and wished to atone, this was the place to do so, but before it had been made clear if it was a demi-god of death or bravery, of strength or pestilence, approaching such a being or even staring at him might be an ill-adviced move. The pilgrims filled up the temple's courtyard taking care not to approach too close to any of the priests of the inner temple who only showed themselves to the public during these occassions and could be tainted by the mere presence of a sinner. They doused their torches against the sandy ground and sat down, most using their fat backpacks and sacks as chairs and sofas. There was no need to kneel to the Lady Balance here – for that, there'd be enough time during the long and dangerous pilgrimage, and so the atmosphere was cheerful, companionable, if not as loud as it could have been during a more secular meeting. People whispered to their neighbors and offered drinks and spare snacks as they waited for the whole courtyard to fill up, a progress that took its own time. When all the pilgrims had sat down, among the last a tall stranger clad in black and carrying a staff as tall as two short men, the huge horns of the Temple of First Rites howled the fourth time with the same tone as they had done the first time, a wake-up call for those few who had gotten a bit too comfortable as they had waited for the blessing to begin. Air was now cool and the courtyard was very dark, illuminated only by the reddish glow coming from the four massive braziers set to each corner of the large space and the two braziers on both sides of the altar. In the calm darkness of the back row of pilgrims twin stars of green laced with angry yellow shone under a cowl. How these mortals enjoy wasting their short lives with such pointless rituals! Of course, if this was as simple as merely taking this lead staff to the Temple of High Ascension, there'd be no point in it for me or for Lady Balance. There must be some deeper meanings to all this... Everything was painted either with different shades of black and dark blue or with the red of the coals before the acolytes poured choachoa-oil on the two braziers nearest the altar. White and yellow fire crackled and danced upwards and a thick, sweet smoke poured down to baptize the pilgrims as their first touch of divine. In the short time the fires kept the small space around the altar lit, the high priest in his pure blue robes walked briskly to view and raised his hands in a gesture of benediction. The pilgrims raised their arms up in response and quietly roared a reply to the high priest's murmured greeting. He then proceeded with the Prayer of the Long Trail, occassionally pausing to hear the muted cacophony of a thousand whispered replies to certain parts of the long and ritualistic oration. The blue moon, Avindadanja the Lotus Chariot, rose high enough to bathe the hilltop in its light, further giving the ritual an unreal look, distorting all the colors and giving off just enough illumination to point out how dark it was. By the time the long prayer ended, the tall flames conjured forth by the oil had long since gone and the temple was completely shrouded in dim blue moonlight and deep shadows. At the altar, the high priest straightened his aching back and started the enormous task of blessing every single pilgrim's staff.

Five months earlier. Sunlight danced on the white and pink marble columns, on the polished black stone of the tables, made the thick carpets show off their lustrous sheen. A seabird cried beyond the confines of the luxurious room and was answered by another, then third, their wails both faintly haunting and entirely mundane. Two figures sat on both sides of the central table, one a woman with raven-black hair and a tanned face that looked like it was accustomed of smiling. The three faint scars on it did not really manage to ruin her beauty, them or the slight frown she was regarding her guest with. The woman wore a loose robe of absolute, pure white bound with a thin belt of black cloth – a striking contrast to her guest's attire: mismatched blood-red armor in a state of constant change, narrow black crown with sharp, unpleasant-looking spikes that barely kept the dirty grey hair of the tall man in check, a long war-sword in its curved scabbard leaning to the chair he sat. Her three scars were slight smudges in her immortal perfection, something that only accentuated her beauty. His innumerable scars, telling the tales of different elements and weapons all struck in anger against their bearer, barely left any unmarred skin left. They ruined his face to such extent it was difficult to see what his expression was, if he had one at all. On the black table between them were two tall crystal glasses full of some red liquid sparkling merrily in the sun, not quite as dark as the dried and unwashed color of blood the man wore. The man gestured at the glasses and lifted his left eyebrown, the scars on his face shifting to new position. “Why, ye should know, m'lady Faaye Khanthius, that 'tis not my habit t' partake such mortal refreshments.” “An' ye should know, Duke Wodzan Xe Chanima of Chaos, that 'tis not my habit t' entertain such guests as yerself, an' that 'tis especially not my habit t' let them 'ave their usual refreshments here.” The Dreamer winced at the title, but his eyes still shone with radiant emerald green that showed he was not angered by it. He made a short placating gesture, sat straighter in his majestetic wicker chair and completed the gesture of goodwill by reaching forward, lifting the glass in salute and taking a sip of the wine. Annoyance showing in her motions, Faaye replicated the gesture in silence, then continued the silence when the Dreamer further motioned that there was something he wished to say. “I guess I should explain' myself slightly more clearly, an' I do thank ye for seein' me with such a lack of reluctance, even tho' it'd been quite understandable for ye to refuse my social call. All th' debts 'ave been paid, both ways, an' I'm not 'ere to refute that.” The calm words took some edge away from the posture of the woman and she sank slightly deeper into her chair, turned her gaze outwards through the portals that acted as her windows here in her Void-fortress. “Th' wars are over, for now. I am no longer a Commander of th' Chaos armies, a position I never really wanted in th' first place, an' th' title of Duke of Chaos rings hollow in my ears, as it should. In truth, I am mostly free of any bindin' chains of responsibility.” Faaye kept her eyes in the seabirds circling over some distant ocean, unfazed by the rays of the setting sun striking her in the face. The color of the light in the room changed from light yellow to deeper hues of orange, red and purple, very slowly, and shadows crept into existence here and there. She turned back to face her visitor and took another sip of the wine, a curious smile appearing on her face half in the light, half in the growing and deepening shadow. “So why are ye 'ere, m'lord Not-Quite-of-Chaos? Is this a meetin' of two planewalkers devoid of phanatique, conspirin' across th' widest, deadliest deep chasm in th' multiversum? Why, ye sound like ye should be branded by th' scales of Balance instead of followin' th' ways of th' Scattered Arrows.” His only immediate response was a short nod delivered with a grin.

The late afternoon heat made everybody seem like they were trembling under the weight of the heavy lances of sunlight that beat upon every hapless soul in plain sight with incessant blows. The sun poked and prodded every pile of rubbish, every unwashed soul, every half-dead dog, and released the smells to the air, generating the unmistakable, thick smell of civilization that had not yet grasped the idea of sewers. Most people were sitting or lying down under some shade or another, further protected by loose layers of off-white clothing, fortified against the drying effects of the hot day by cups of tea served in the countless small tearooms. Some slept on top of their belongings with the practiced ease of long-range travellers, occassionally dragging their luggage to a new spot if the sun obliterated the shadows they had been slumbering in. Nobody batted an eye when a lone tall figure walked through the muddy streets, the deadly heat turning his thin figure cloaked in black of all colours into a wavering mirage. Some perhaps noticed him, but none felt energetic enough to generate any fuss about it, and so he walked past the tearooms and travellers, panting dogs and almost-dry wells, small mud-houses and mid-sized houses made of bricks, paused to look upwards to the few large stone buildings on top of the hill in the middle of a dry, dusty and empty street. That feat of clear arrogance towards the searing heat and dazzlingly bright sunlight awarded him a few mildly intrigued looks issued through half-open eyelids, which was the local equivalent of large crowds gathering to stare at you at this hour. After a long while he continued his slow, purposeful walk, faded out from the vision of the handful of people who had been staring at him by turning into a distorted mirage again, something that was natural but still enough to give the observers an excuse to dismiss his recklessness as a heat-generated phantasm. He ended his walk at a local temple, its architecture a mix of grandiose stone that formed the central bulk of the building and wings of cheap wooden shelters that provided shade. At one corner of the sprawling complex was something akin to a shop: there was a counter with an elderly man asleep over it, behind him a staggering variety of different walking sticks and poles and staves of different materials. The tall man stood again in the staggering sunlight as he surveyed the temple and the people asleep or resting all over the place, all carefully in the life-supporting confinements of the blessed shadows, and then continued to the counter of the stave-shop with his deliberate, slow pace. There he stopped, standing unnaturally still with expectant air, a trick that might have gotten him service somewhere else or at some other time with commendable haste, but that was entirely wasted on the sleeping man behind the counter. It took some time for him to realize this, but when he did he acted at once, shaking the elderly man awake with a scarred hand emerging from the depths of his black cloak. Superbly skilled in all manner of ways to avoid waking up during the hot hours, the elderly man could nevertheless not ignore the constant shaking and staggered upright, ready to dismiss whoever had such uncouthly disturbed his peace. He was the first in the town to see the vibrant glow of the green eyes shining inside the dark cowl, a sight disconcerning enough to make him forget his grumpyness, for no locals had such eyes. Even thus shaken now twice over, physically and mentally, he still went through the rituals of slowly coughing up phlegm and then spitting it out, wiping the sleep away from his own eyes and moisturing his dry lips before he even tried to talk. The stranger waited patiently. “Evening, traveller.” “Evenin', temple-keeper. Ye sell th' rods for th' Long Trail pilgrims, ya?” The accent the stranger used made the old man blink. It was thick, even if completely understandable, but he could not place it, and given his position he was an expert on strangers and their odd dialects and accents. Uneasiness crept into his tone as he replied. “We don't sell anything, pilgrim. We hand out the Rods of Balance for free to those who make a donation to the temple: short wooden ones for those who are in spiritual balance to begin with, tall staves of kteah-wood to those who have strayed and heavy rods of iron for the few who are tormented by their erroneous deeds and want to redeem themselves on the Long Trail towards Ascension.” In the dark depths of the cowl white teeth appeared as the odd traveller grinned, then nodded. “Ya, well. An' those who donate th' most may receive a bit more extrava'ant Rod of Balance for their piety, neh? How much should I .. ah, 'donate' .. to get yer heaviest rod?” This question about the heaviest rod he had was one the old man had heard often, and it still made him smirk in anticipation. “Why, if you are blessed with enough strength to carry the heaviest Rod of Balance we have, dedicated to a sinner of cosmic proportions who has both the means and the need for redemption beyond the average mortals, we'll require no donation at all.” The stranger nodded in acquiescence. The nonchalant nod merely widened the old man's smile and he raised his voice to a shout as he called to the temple acolytes. “Taaleh! Ykael! This pilgrim wants to carry the Rod of Cosmic Redemption to the Temple of High Ascension!” Two young bald muscular men clad in mere loincloths appeared as if by a magic trick, slowed only slightly by the untolerable heat of the afternoon, and disappered through the door at the back of the shop. Soon afterwards the words of the Prayer of Lifting Very Heavy Things could be heard, succeeded by two nearly animal grunts of exertion. Shuffled steps and heavy breathing approached and then one of the young man appeared through the door carrying one end of a thick rod with both hands, walking deliberately. The rest of the rod followed, then the second young man, both sweating profusely by now. The staff was around 3 inches wide and made of some grey metal reinforced by thick and elaborate bars of black, presumably lead and iron. The lead part of the it was unadorned and plain, but the iron reinforcements were engraved and wrought into various ornamental patterns that depicted the toils of the unredeemable sinners in the depths of the Hells. It was nearly 8 feet tall, clearly impossible for any local (for the average height seemed to be only slightly over 5 feet, further marking the 6'6” tall stranger out) to use as any kind of staff or to even carry alone. The rod-carriers moved as if to lay the rod to the earth, but they were intercepted by the stranger who moved with abrupt fluidity and speed to grab the black handle, then to lift the staff upwards with a startling jerk that made the two acolytes relish their hold on it. Having accomplished sole guardianship over the staff, he took a few steps backwards so he stood in the full glare of the merciless sun and turned the staff upright only to lean on it in delight, grinning to the amazed acolytes and the keeper of the shop. “Rod of Cosmic Redemption, neh? 'Tis to my likin', ya.”

I like the second one - it tastes like summer, real and metaphorical.

It should be "Voi Luoja! Päässäni on kirves!" - it just looks very wrong without the umlauts. I'd fix the minor other errors as well but I think you'll do well with just this pharse, as the other words are rarely used but this one is certainly needed in daily life for both tourists and natives. Oh, and as for "please" we do it with conjugating(?) the verb, as in "Ota tämä kirves pois päästäni!" "Take this axe off my head!" vs "Voisitko ottaa tämän kirveen pois päästäni? Se ei sovi imagooni." "Could you please take this axe off my head? It doesn't fit my imago." PS. Only russian pharse I know is "Surrender, Russian soldier!" - I'm sure it'll be as handy for me as this axe-thing is for any tourists visiting Finland.

The illusion-within-the-illusion next to the Dreamer telling the tale-within-the-tale showed the old man's silence for a moment before winking out of existence. The mirage of the planewalker in the remaining illusion stared at the empty spot where it had been and spoke seemingly still half in his own memories, the words as they were re-spoken by the Dreamer of Now slow and thoughtful. ““'Tis th' tale, Devourer, or at least th' part of it ye want t' hear. T' any other sentient bein' I would continue it to th' end of my travels, but ye only needed fuel for yer flames o' hatr'd, an' need no epilogue that closes th' accountin' of my travels in those troubled times.” As I 'ad surmis'd, th' Abyss-thing was quite pleased by my tale, hissin' an' squirmin' in disgustin' display of pleasure, revertin' back t' th' depths of bestial instincts to wallow in th' idea of Earl Vrean bein' chewed up by th' jagged mouth of th' Parallel Wall. I watch'd eyes still a'blaze by th' yellow fires of wariness an' alertness, 'til I grew weary of th' primordial mindlessness of th' thing. “Well, Lord Fiend, pause in thy gurglin' an' fulfil yer part of th' pact, neh? Stand aside an' allow me t' pass!” “As you wish, blind worm. Walk past me and fetch your spark.” Now, while I might be of Chaos, within me an' those of my kin are some unwritten rules wrou'ht of adamantium, so t' speak. This Obliterator, a swirlin' spawn of chaos an' evil, alien an' singleminded in its hatred an' disobeyance of any law or promise, large or small, had no such limitations. It 'ad gotten 's tale, an' would benefit none of my continued existence. It most certainly did not want a reputation as reliable creature, that much should anybody know. So I did somethin' no sane planewalker should do an' was reckless – for while I knew 'twould attack me as soon as it would be able, I also was fairly certain of my ability t' withstand its blow or three. If I 'ad've paused t' reinforce my wards outside of its reach, th' charade would've ended an' it wouldn't 'ave tried to take me out by surprise, but claw'd and gnashed 'gainst th' invisible wall that kept it at bay ready to rend me apart as soon as I'd step over th' treshold. On th' other hand, would I appear so foolish as t' march toward my reward with th' outward appearance of blissful tranquility, there was a possibility it'd wait, tryin' to lull me into a false sense of security for a fleetin' moment before it'd crack my protective spells open an' devour me with its enormous maw. A simple ruse it might be, yet sometimes simple works. Still, 'ad I been mortal, my hands would 'ave been slick with sweat. With calm countenance, eyes retainin' their yellow glare that would've told anybody up t' date with tales of me I was as alert as ever, I walk'd towards th' blue fire. Chaos howled in my mind, dividin' it to parts that all were ready t' do different things, my lips mutterin' nervously th' broken syllables of various spells: th' activation word of my retreat forcefield, th' harsh an' painful but useful words of a Law's protective triangle an' many others, magicks of defense an' hasty escapes. Predictable as ever, th' Lord of Abyss reared up as I was near to it, its amorphous form resembling a molten black bear or a malevolent wave ready to crash upon th' small, bright spark of my wards coruscatin' in various shades of emerald green. I could smell its noxious breath, feel the corrosive taint its raw chaos mix'd with th' darkest evil radiated to every direction, an' if I'd had th' time, I would've shivered in disgust. As it was, I shouted aloud a spell I 'ad learned durin' my neutral times with voice turned coarse and faint from th' deadly vapours surroundin' th' Hell-Beast, th' sharp an' cuttin' words too exact an' luminous for th' current me to yell without burnin' myself in the progress. I called to th' Law an' th' crystalline words gushed from my lacerated throat borne on a fountain of blood, every rune pronounc'd with clarity, an' th' Law heard: around me manifest'd a golden triangle, th' basic protective symbol of th' Order. Th' fiend tried t' recoil from th' conjuration, taken completely by surprise by Law's intervention on behalf of a Duke of Chaos, but its formless appendage was already descending and struck th' golden ward with mighty force, an abysmal blow of great strength shatterin' on th' immovable surface of Law's might channeled by a Master of the Art. It scream'd in afright'ned rage, th' fist it 'ad used to strike me turnin' translucent an' diffuse, th' gaseous tentacles twisting to agoniz'd knots. Submerged in my own pain I howl'd back at th' Obliterator, Law exactin' a heavy payment as its power surged through me. I had been expectin' th' agony an' thus I was th' first to recover, soon dashin' towards th' great blue bonfire as fast as I could in my pained state. Th' fortress shook when it recovered enough t' gain control of its limbs, the creature wastin' a second or two at expressin' its magnificient rage at my affront to have th' temerity to actually resist its attempt t' devour me. 'Twas all I needed: I grasped a spark of th' blue flame an' sidestepped away to th' planar Astral before th' Devourer 'ad time for a second blow.” The Dreamer grinned, the scars on his face dancing an intimidating jig. He snapped his fingers and drew forth a tube of glass from the depths of his cloak, held it up so the blue flame inside illuminated his face and the dirty table with bright, azure light. “So, there 's my tale, mortal boy, a tale I've now told twice, an' my throat's parched anew.” The planewalker put the vial of flame away and downed the last thin layer of blood left, put the glass carefully on the table, his grin showing white teeth and his equally white eyes radiating a pale glow in the gloomy shadows of the tavern.

Congratz!

Congratulations, Zariah! It takes dedication to reach the full member status. *two thumbs up*

Walks past the thread carrying a hungry cat.

Russian techno bass is my heartbeat my heartbeat the growl of the engine lights stream across my vision miles vanish under the rubber feet technological prayer wheels grinding me tranquil nirvana

“At first he was reluctant to even divulge us the direction of his new research, but I could see in him the craving to discuss about what he was doing, and as he rushed forward to areas only a few Masters of the Art had charted, that desire finally overwhelmed his disinclination to say anything. We were seated at a table, like this, with slender glasses of wine in front of us – I remember the look on his face very clearly, the fire in his eyes burning with a steady flame, in his motions the sort of inexactitude people obsessed by something internal can have, and how the dam of muteness broke and his words poured out, words I'll never forget: 'Zacharie, 't may seem that th' 'eavy blow dealt t' me an' Law has left me driftin' aimlessly an' without any purpose, an' perhaps 'twas true for a time, but in dreams I 'ave found a way to work 'gainst that blow. 'T may seem, also, that there is naught t' be done, an' to an extent, that is true. There is naught t' be done in this multiversum, bound by these laws and this history! Alas, I see from yer afright'ned face that ye already object, an' truly 'tis no easy subject, th' breachin' of the barrier to th' Parallels, but if there are any beings of power capable of such a feat, I am one of those. Even after this setback, I remain an unparall'd Master in th' Art, inspir'd by visions in my dreams sent by the Fates themselves. This time, I shall succeed!' No words of mine would turn his head, something I knew after the first tentative tries. I was his friend, and a true friend does no condemn nor sabotage any chosen path of his comrade, not even if the goal seems shrouded in danger and failure. So I turned to follow him instead of trying to pointlessly to bar his way, and did my small part to help him in this second Great Work in such a short time. This time, the whole project had a morbid feeling to it, and I still shudder as I recall those hectic days. Inspired by Fates or possessed by some inner phantoms, Earl Vrean moved forward a road that was paved with much speculation but that had been rarely traveled before. Most accounts of such experiments on probing or trying to breach the barrier that separates the endless possibilities of this multiversum from those of the other Parallels, if any exist, were tales of wasted time. Some rare ones spoke of uncontrollable energies that surged through the hapless ritualists, leaving behind naught but ashes and blackened bones sparing no magus, mortal or immortal. None spoke of success. Of course, Vrean only laughed at the stories, a dry, hollow laugh lacking any warmth. Whatever hand had grasped him through his dreams was making him dance like a puppet, I felt, and was dismayed at the display of such a power, vaster and greater than one of the greatest planewalkers of my time. There was nothing haphazard or awkward in that dance, however, and the work mirrored the highly successful Ritual of the Kalash, proceeding forward in leaps and bounds. Even I, at the edges of that research, know possibly more about the Parallels than any other mortal and most of the immortals, such was the amount of knowledge we went through. We lacked any definite deadline, yet there still was an urgency to everything Earl Vrean did. In a matter of weeks, mere weeks to achieve the work of a lifetime, we were finished and ready. I see you are intrigued, now.” Zacharie nodded slowly as if to himself and closed his eyes for a moment. He then sighed and opened them, continued his tale in a weary tone. “Only I and him were present, so you shall not hear another version of this part of the story, ever. We were in his summoning chambers, my fragile mortal body situated at the high balcony above the stone pit that housed Vrean's magic circle. Between me and and the bottom of the pit rippled a powerful field of force, coloured like a sheet of capture sunlight trembling to break free. Underneath it I could see the distorted image of the Earl, his hands going through the motions of spellcasting, faint nonsensical words of the Art drifting up to me. I felt sick already by then, feeling the immense doom that hung over the whole scene, and I knew he could not succeed twice in a row in works of this magnitude, inspired by the whispers of the Fates or not. It brought me no pleasure to find out soon enough I was right in my misgivings. It is hard for an outsider like me to know when Order holds sway and the exact words of the Art mold the disorderly matter into the patterns that are sought for by the magus, and when Chaos howls in the cracks between the syllables, denying Law's supremacy and twisting the spell into a deadly storm that will engulf anybody nearby. Even the look on the face of the ritualist does not always tell anything, for some of the toils the Art inflicts on the minds of those who are arrogant enough to tell the multiversum what to do instead of adapting mutely to its ways twist the face of the magus into visages that are almost as horrible to behold as they must be horrible to suffer through, and thus I was not immediately alarmed when I saw a ghastly grimace spread over the face of Earl Vrean. Before him opened a fissure or a portal in the very air of the chamber, its jagged edges looking menacingly sharp even through the distorting forcefield, the blackness in its center giving out a feeling of immense depth so mesmerizing I grasped the rail in front of me in a fit of dizzying vertigo. Amidst the grasping of the rail so hard my knuckles turned white I realized the meaningless words of the ritual had ceased, and then I heard a sound I shall remember as long as I live – the scream of a planewalker facing his final doom. I raised my eyes after a brief internal struggle, debating if I would really want to see what happened, and witnessed the jagged hole through the Parallel Wall devour my friend Earl Vrean as if it was the deadly maw of some giant, legendary beast. He paused for a short moment, then screamed again and was gone without a trace. Satisfied or unable to retain its form for long, the slash in the fabric of the multiversum healed itself, vanishing before my teary eyes. That, m'lord planewalker, is the true lesson of this long and rambling tale that has exhausted me. Ultimately, not to pursue the cold and bitter fruits of vengeance too far, or more specifically, not to reach towards the limitless possibilities of the Parallels, not even if the Fates themselves whisper about it. For immortal Masters of the Art will fall like the most fragile mortal if they overreach, something I would never dare to tell any of your kind without this true tale to illustrate my point.” The old man leaned back and said no more.

“It opened with the slow yet graceful charge of the glacier of Law's forces, trumpets proclaiming our victory already in the opening notes of that battle, a calculated arrogance to enrage the easily distracted Dukes of Chaos. The fiery river roared and surged to meet our challenge in the usual patternless attack formation of the Unruly, superior numbers acting as their chief strategy. On both sides, the clashing forces seemed to be evenly matched to my untrained eye and the warriors of the line cut and crushed each other in a locked embrace of steel. In the middle where the Kalash spearheaded our attack, the tale of the battle was different and the natural supremacy of Law could be observed most clearly, our forces cutting through the skin of the Chaos Beast and hewing deeper, into the innards of our nemesis. The planewalkers who follow the path of the Many Arrows had concentrated their deadliest, most abysmal warmagics into that narrow area, but our own immortals countered their every move with a similar feat of the Art, and thus it seemed that we'd cut the enemy in half and win the day easily. It was then the Chaos taint grew stronger as if a vast wave of hot and humid hell-breath had rushed over our troops, bringing with it unbearable visions of a thousand false possibilities, a mind-searing kaleidoscope of untrue paths, burning us with uncertainty and falsehood. I turned my head towards the centre of that surge, a movement that was mirrored all around me, and we all beheld a golden apparition of a chalice standing watch over the beleaguered front of the Chaos. The battle all but ceased nearby, the enormous dimensions of the magics used stunning even the most mindless hell-beasts and the most fanatic of the angels, the forces of Law aghast at their chosen color, gold, being used in a such manner. Within the transparent image of a burning, golden chalice I could see a pattern emerging and a dread descended upon me, for even without any skill in the Art I saw the same general shape take form as I had previously seen in Earl Vrean's workshop as he demonstrated the Kalash Ritual to me. But this version was tainted to the core, its pulsing red veins connecting it to the past and to the future reminding me of talons ready to rip apart all that Vrean had made and to destroy it, I assumed. Even that would, at best, given Chaos a draw and time to lick their wounds, but it was the life's work of a planewalker I knew and called a friend, and so a deep terror awoke in me, a terror co-mingled with sorrow for I saw that the demonic spell could not be stopped in time. Ah, if the Kalash would have been demolished I would not be here telling this tale, nor proclaiming it to be of the utmost importance! But I had read the spell wrong. The hovering image above us exploded into countless golden lances, most of them aimed at the Kalash but some vanishing into the blackness of the Void. Those that struck the metal warriors left them seemingly unharmed, however, and for a moment I was perplexed, then overjoyed at the impotence of the Chaos magics against our brilliant creations. The moment I realized the spell had worked after all was one of the most terrible in my life, a black, fell endless hour that left me sick and drained – for the Kalash turned swiftly, as organized as ever, and brought their wicked long blades down upon their erstwhile comrades-in-arms. The clean blades rose and then fell, rose again irredeemably soiled with the blood of the celestial kin. This sight was greeted with shocked silence by the warriors of Law and with a cackling, roaring mismatched yell of wicked glee by the fiery troops of Chaos, who wasted no time in crashing forward, their berserker rage awakened by the bloodletting. Law endures and matches entropia and Chaos both with an unyielding steadfastness, now and during that gloomy day. So while the losses were great and many a valiant captain was lost, not to even mention the uncountable dozens of the high angels that were cut down by the Betrayal and the long mêlée that followed or the legions they lead to the final Dark, we held firm: Law's shining shield deflected the hacking, wicked blade of the Chaos, as it always does. This time the price was higher than ever for both sides, the blade shattered and the shield cracked, for not even the hideous act of subversion the Disorder had wrought was enough to undo all the beatings they had had to endure by our hand before this battle. So were the two mightiest armies of all shattered and dispersed, the remaining forces each seeking to take advantage of the uncertain times in one way or another, either by trying to grab some piece of the multiversum or to defend their old claims against the roving bands of other side's troops.” The old man was silent for a while and coughed softly, gaze turned inwards to seek the next words. When he raised his eyes to meet those of the Dreamer there was an old pain in his look, and his countenance turned more grim. “If that would be all, this would be no better or worse than the tales the angels tell to exalt the works of Law and to condemn the vile Chaos. That story and all its permutations are even older than ye, m'lord Planewalker, for that conflict is as old as time itself. But there are more to it than the reversal of fortunes and the bedlam that followed. Our retinue withdraw from the forces of Law as soon as it was clear the grand war was over, that our monolithic army was shattered into smaller forces, many of which were working inspired by greed or fear. To most of what happened I was a mere observer, lacking any skills, powers or influence to even nudge the events to any other direction than to where they were headed by their own inherent nature, but at that hour of despair I can say I steered our small group. Earl Vrean was understandably heart-broken by the betrayal of his creations and the corruption of his life's work, especially since from his few muttered words I could gather those golden lances that had disappeared into the trackless void had struck the ritual at its core, corrupted the metal world of Kalash so that there were no Kalash true to the first ritual and vision any more. There were only the main forces of them, and the pariahs that had so been twisted by Chaos they did not fit even the new Disorder of those metal warriors. So I coaxed Vrean to work his magic, ordered the angels to guard us, and pointed the small squad towards the Earl's main study. It was a sombre flight through the darkness of the Void. When we arrived, Vrean at once withdraw to his personal quarters where he was not to be disturbed by anyone, for any reason. I was left to my own devices, and if I could have done so, I would have traveled back to my own home to get away from the miasma of gloom that hung over the whole silent workshop. Days passed, stirring in me a vague fear the Earl would stay confined in his inner workshop for so long I would wither of old age waiting for the tenebrous tendrils of dejection to loosen their grasp. Before I deemed it worth the risk to try disturbing the master of the fortress in his inner sanctum, he emerged on his own. The spark of wildness I had spied in the deep wells of his eyes back when he had started the final uncharacteristic dash in his work on the Great Ritual was now easy to see, as it was not a spark but an inferno now. The madness that spoke to him in his dreams had touched him again.”

<--- Is now officially happy, at least for a while. Thanks! I'll put this right next to the beautiful glass stars I got from one of my customers as a Christmas gift.

I haven't even seen that movie Mynx, but I still know that it is ... Alien vs Predator! Mmm, I should write a riddle or two more myself but my fingers are frozen...

I'd prolly be awkwardly cheerful if I'd meet any of my old acquintances from school, too - it's hard to give an accurate report of your real quality of life, and so only the usual things count: houses, families, wives and husbands, kids and jobs, money. And I have none of that, so any conversation that starts with "So how are you these days?" is doomed from the start. I'm nevertheless happy from time to time, but in too intangible way to convey to some old friend.

I know Peredhil's! Some spoiler space for those who still are pondering... A Wizard of Earthsea.

Mira's riddle reminds me of Wheel of Time, but it has been so long since I last read it I can't be sure - besides themes like that are quite common in fantasy. This might be too easy, but... Etch your memories into you. Live in the now. Cheat yourself and succeed. Continue your pointless hunt. And kill your only partner. Or see the movie.

Rune! http://www.themightypen.net/public/style_emoticons/default/ohmy.gif *flying hugtackle*

Yah, it's a bit jagged transition. I tried tinkering with it but couldn't find a better configuration yet - chopping it in two leaves the last two lines sort of lonely and I wasn't inspired enough to write a 6th line (either to the end or between 3rd and 4th current line) right now. I'll see if I can do something to it later.

in the deep warm seas of my bed thoughts swim akin to fuzzy whales sing their slow, beautiful songs; the muted center of consciousness suspended between dreams and reality