Waking the Dreamer

South of the Reginian Consulate lies a kingdom forgotten: the once proud nation of Montfermeil went quiet 25 years ago, after a failed attempt at gaining a foothold in the contested territories of the Xanthos Empire's heartland. Rumors were that the final Heir to the throne died in that battle, and the rulership, not wanting to suffer the same fate as the Empire, placed a moratorium on trade and negotiations as they struggled to move forward. If only that was the case. Instead, they turned to a power that promised them everything they wished for, if only they gave it everything it wanted. They agreed. Montfermeil is no more. In its place is the Crimson Empire, and The Empress reigns supreme. She's a creepy magic overseer who controls creepy clones of herself to spy on the population. The clones have no will of their own, instead being magical flesh puppets. She's seen things. She's imagined things. She spends most of her time alone.

Waking the Dreamer

South of the Reginian Consulate lies a kingdom forgotten: the once proud nation of Montfermeil went quiet 25 years ago, after a failed attempt at gaining a foothold in the contested territories of the Xanthos Empire's heartland. Rumors were that the final Heir to the throne died in that battle, and the rulership, not wanting to suffer the same fate as the Empire, placed a moratorium on trade and negotiations as they struggled to move forward. If only that was the case. Instead, they turned to a power that promised them everything they wished for, if only they gave it everything it wanted. They agreed. Montfermeil is no more. In its place is the Crimson Empire, and The Empress reigns supreme. She's a creepy magic overseer who controls creepy clones of herself to spy on the population. The clones have no will of their own, instead being magical flesh puppets. She's seen things. She's imagined things. She spends most of her time alone.

The chamber of the Dreamer is large and imposing. While the only consistent sources of light are a few candles, inscriptions and runes run across the stone floor, some pulsing with a sinister red light, others with shimmering gold, offer flashes of luminance within the hazy, sweet smelling smoke. The air hangs heavy with the scent of exotic incense that tickles your nostrils as you breathe. The marks spiral towards the center of the room, where, upon a stone dais, sits a large bed draped in silken fabrics that catch the flickering light.

Upon that bed lies the Dreamer herself. Her form is delicate yet somehow imposing, like a fragile flower with thorns you can't see but know are there. You notice the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, slow and measured at first.

She stirs slightly, her head moving back and forth, but not towards anything in particular, and you can hear her breath as it picks up in pace and intensity. The hair falls away from her face as she turns her head, revealing features that seem both youthful and ancient at once. She speaks, and rather than a booming echo or voice in your mind, it's a meek, quiet, and trembling question: "W-wh- who's there?"