Dreamlog of Rue
General Summary
Dream of Rue
This record holds the dream as experienced by Rue
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 - Success
Show SpoilerThe mine is flooded. You stand on a narrow ledge, arms wrapped in chains, listening. Rain falls from the ceiling, but not from any storm. Your parents stand across the chasm, shadows held in place by memory. They nod once. You leap. The water catches you like breath. You do not sink. You wake still holding one of the stones you keep beside your bed—but this one is warm, etched with a glyph you don’t recall carving.
Dream 2 - Success
Show SpoilerYou stand on the edge of Graytower Beacon. The sea is glass-still, but the horizon is wrong—too close, pressing inward. The lighthouse flares behind you, its light casting no shadow. Your parents’ voices call from the top of the tower, distant but warm, singing the Song of the Beacon. The melody tugs at you, pulling you up the winding stairs. Each step you take drips water, though the air is dry. You look down—your feet are leaving trails of brine across the stones.
At the top of the tower, your parents wait, smiling. They open their mouths to sing with you, but the harmony is wrong—flat, hollow. As you listen closer, the words turn strange: not a beacon’s song, but a dirge. Their faces flicker, their eyes unblinking and alien. Behind them, the beacon warps into a mass of tendrils, its light a pulsing eye. The voices say together: “Sing with us. Forever.” You recoil, and the vision shatters like glass, leaving you gasping—but with certainty: the promise of family is a lie, a chain of servitude.
At the top of the tower, your parents wait, smiling. They open their mouths to sing with you, but the harmony is wrong—flat, hollow. As you listen closer, the words turn strange: not a beacon’s song, but a dirge. Their faces flicker, their eyes unblinking and alien. Behind them, the beacon warps into a mass of tendrils, its light a pulsing eye. The voices say together: “Sing with us. Forever.” You recoil, and the vision shatters like glass, leaving you gasping—but with certainty: the promise of family is a lie, a chain of servitude.
Report Date
25 Aug 2025
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