The Tale of The Dreamer & The Wanderer

Written by The Archivist

Once upon a time, in a bustling seaside kingdom bathed in golden sunlight, there lived a young Dreamer. The Dreamer awoke each morning in a canvas tent that swayed gently with the sea breeze, surrounded by the scents of salt and sizzling crab. Outside, the city bustled with life, its streets a tapestry of colours and sounds.

The Dreamer’s parents, the Joyful Cook and the Dancing Tinker, filled the mornings with laughter and song. Their love radiated like the sun, as they hummed melodies to the tune of an enchanted lute that strummed itself.

"Come, Dreamer," called the Joyful Cook, flipping a fish onto a plate. "Breakfast is ready, and the day will not wait."

The Dreamer joined them with a grin, savouring the warmth of family and the flavours of the sea. But just as the Dreamer reached for another piece of crab, a strange whisper coiled through the air.

This is real.

Startled, the Dreamer looked around but saw no one, only the familiar faces of the Joyful Cook and the Dancing Tinker. Shaking off the unease, the Dreamer resumed their meal, though the voice lingered in the back of their mind like a shadow.

Later that day, the Dancing Tinker handed the Dreamer a pouch of coins. “We need rice,” they said. “Run along now, but don’t get lost in the market’s wonders.”

The Dreamer darted into the Grand Market, where sandstone towers loomed like ancient sentinels over a sea of colourful tents. Merchants shouted their wares, and the air buzzed with life.

In the heart of the market, a crowd had gathered around a table where figures in white robes stood, their faces obscured by hoods. The crowd whispered of a grand expedition to a distant land, seeking those with magic to aid them.

The Dreamer’s heart leapt. With a flick of their hand, they conjured a cascade of golden sparks, proclaiming, “I can do magic!”

The crowd parted, and one of the Hooded Seekers beckoned the Dreamer forward. “Dreamer,” they mused, their voice curious. “An unusual title. Is it meant as a jest?”

“No jest,” the Dreamer replied with a grin. “It’s simply who I am.”

“And your gift? Latent or born?”

“Latent,” the Dreamer admitted, their pride undiminished.

The Hooded Seeker nodded. “Meet us at sunrise in the market. We shall see if your spark is enough.”

The Dreamer raced home to share the news. The Joyful Cook’s smile faltered, and the Dancing Tinker’s hands stilled. “The world beyond is vast and unforgiving,” warned the Cook. “Are you certain, Dreamer?”

“I must try,” the Dreamer insisted. “I need to prove myself.”

The night before their departure, the Joyful Cook packed a humble meal, and the Dancing Tinker pressed a gold pin into the Dreamer’s hand. “This has kept me safe through countless storms,” they said. “May it guard you as well.”

The Dreamer hugged them tightly and set off at dawn. The Grand Market was empty but for the whir of an airship descending from the clouds. Its golden hull gleamed, and a rope ladder unfurled, inviting the Dreamer aboard.

The airship soared above the seas and mountains, and the Dreamer was tasked with charting the unknown lands they passed. They grew adept at mapmaking, their hands tracing the shapes of rivers and valleys with increasing skill.

But as they neared the land of the Dawning Sun, a wave of purple light erupted on the horizon. It rippled through the skies, a force of unfathomable power. The airship shuddered as its heart—a crystal of immense strength—splintered.

The Dreamer clung to the railing as the ship spiralled downward, flames consuming its deck and crew. Screams filled the air before being silenced by the deafening crash.

All went black.

When the Dreamer awoke, they were no longer in the mortal realm but in a chamber bathed in gold. Before them stood the Gilded Weaver, a being of celestial beauty and power, her presence commanding awe.

“You were lost,” said the Gilded Weaver, her voice resonant. “But I have tethered you back. Your soul has a role yet to play.”

The Dreamer blinked in confusion. “Am I alive?”

“In a sense,” the Weaver replied. “But your return comes with a cost.”

She explained that another soul—a soul of the Learned Wanderer—was bound for ruin. His knowledge and cunning had been invaluable, but his fate had stolen him away. With no other choice, the Weaver had entwined his soul with the Dreamer’s, merging their essence into one.

Golden light gathered around the Weaver’s hand, forming an orb that shimmered with purple streaks of rage and defiance. “This is his soul,” she said. “It carries his memories, his triumphs, and his regrets.”

Before the Dreamer could protest, the orb was pressed into their chest. Pain erupted like fire, and their vision fractured as memories flooded their mind—visions of libraries, of battles, of bitter decisions that were not their own.

The weight of two lives overwhelmed the Dreamer, and darkness claimed them once more.

When they awoke again, the Dreamer was falling—plummeting through the sky toward a great crater where a city had once stood. Whispers echoed in their mind, fragments of the Wanderer’s voice mingling with their own thoughts.

And so, the Dreamer descended, their fate tethered to mysteries yet to be unravelled.

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