Dreamlog of Lady Cassandra Vexmoor
General Summary
Dream of Lady Cassandra Vexmoor
This record holds the dream as experienced by Lady Cassandra Vexmoor
If you are not the player of this character:
- Feel free to read on, but please remember that your character does not know what happens here unless it comes up in play.
- Treat this as a glimpse behind the curtain, a story only meant for one set of eyes.
Trust, imagination, and good roleplay keep our dreams alive.
Dream 1 - Failed
Show SpoilerYour lungs fill with water, but there is no ocean. Just rain—endless and choking. You try to scream, but your mouth spills seawater and soot. You see your mother’s face in the stormclouds, cracking like burnt parchment. Beneath your feet, the vineyard is gone. In its place, an obsidian mirror shows you your own reflection—older, colder, and smiling with someone else’s eyes. You wake up gasping, soaked in sweat, the scent of rain still in your nose.
Dream 2 - Succeed
Rain falls in heavy sheets, a downpour that drowns the vineyard in shadow. Water soaks your hair, your clothes, your lungs—yet there is no ocean, only rain that never stops. The storm above parts, and faces form in the clouds: your family’s. They turn away, one by one, until only your mother remains. Her features crack like burnt parchment before she dissolves into ash and brine. Beneath your feet, the ground splinters, becoming an obsidian mirror. In its glass you see yourself, older, colder—wearing the crest of House Vexmoor as though you never doubted it.
The mirror-self steps closer, draped in fine silks and dripping with jewels. Behind her, the Vexmoor crest burns brighter than any star, but its light is sickly green. Her lips curl into a smile—your smile—but her eyes are not yours. They shine with a sea-green hue, the pupils elongated like a sea elf’s. Faintly pointed ears break through her hair, an echo of something foreign, something Fey. Chains glimmer faintly in the reflection, binding the crest, binding her hands, binding your throat. The voice echoes, soft and terrible: “They will accept you… if you accept me.” The mirror shatters. You are left clutching only broken glass, and the certainty that the gift is a prison.
The mirror-self steps closer, draped in fine silks and dripping with jewels. Behind her, the Vexmoor crest burns brighter than any star, but its light is sickly green. Her lips curl into a smile—your smile—but her eyes are not yours. They shine with a sea-green hue, the pupils elongated like a sea elf’s. Faintly pointed ears break through her hair, an echo of something foreign, something Fey. Chains glimmer faintly in the reflection, binding the crest, binding her hands, binding your throat. The voice echoes, soft and terrible: “They will accept you… if you accept me.” The mirror shatters. You are left clutching only broken glass, and the certainty that the gift is a prison.
Report Date
25 Aug 2025
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