Dreamlog of Shyk

The rain hammers stone as you kneel in a temple long forgotten. Your childhood necklace glows faintly, repelling the rising flood. Voices whisper from the walls—promises, bargains, things not meant for dwarven ears—but you do not flinch. You press your palm to the altar and mutter a prayer you don’t remember learning. A divine warmth pulses from beneath your ribs. The storm does not break you. You awaken with dry lips and the faint taste of salt.

You stand on wet stone, the sea stretching endlessly in all directions. Before you lies a ritual circle, carved with dwarven runes and lit with faint silver fire. A dozen shadowy hands reach from the water, offering you tools — blades, candles, a black chalice filled with brine. A voice rises from below, a voice vast and echoing: “Take them. Shape the old ways into power. You can carry the rites of your people. You can be more.”

DREAM INTERRUPTED - WAKING DREAM

The sea boils. The voice falters. Something else pushes through — older, vaster. The dream tears open, not like waking but like a veil ripped down. Through the crack, an enormous dragon’s eye stares back at you. It blinks once, and you know with certainty: it is no dream. It is awake, and it sees you.

The dragon exhales, and shadows spill outward, carrying images like smoke across the stone. You see dwarves at work, hammering and chanting in solemn ritual. Around them stand shadar-kai sentinels, blades drawn, their pale eyes scanning the dark. Then — screams. Shadows burst alive, and from them pour cultists clad in purple and black, their faces hidden by skull masks carved from dragon bone. Young shadow dragons swoop between them, trailing claws of darkness. The dwarves and shadar-kai are slaughtered, their cries drowned by roars of dragonfire and shadow. Only a few escape into the abyss.

The dragon’s voice presses into your skull: “They defied me. They hid. You carry their blood. Do not hide, little one. When I wake, I will finish what they began — and you with it.”