Strange Dreams of the Northern Wetlands

by Luke Thomas

Dear Diary,

We continued our journey north from the ruins of Ravensfield, heading toward Latebra Velora. Soon after leaving Ravensfield, the weather took a turn for the worse. The air grew colder, and storm clouds loomed in the distance, their dark shapes promising rain and wind. We entered the Northern Wetlands, a stark and desolate region. To our left stretched a vast swamp, its waters murky and still, while to our right lay a dense forest, its trees towering and ancient. This was the edge of Keralon’s lands, far from the safety of the Silver City’s patrols and guards. Civilization felt like a distant memory here.

The road was lonely, with only the occasional clearing to mark where travelers might have once set up camp. When we stopped for the night at one such clearing, we noticed a dead tree near the campfire site. Its gnarled branches reached out like skeletal fingers, and it was clear that no one had camped here in a long time. The sight was ominous, but with no better options, we decided to risk staying the night.

Sleep did not come easily. I tossed and turned, plagued by strange dreams. In them, I kept waking up, each time seeing a silhouette behind the dead tree. Two green, glowing eyes stared at me from the darkness, filled with malice. The figure felt like it was watching me, hunting me, its presence suffocating. Every time I fell back asleep, the image returned, pulling me back into the same unsettling vision. By morning, I felt haggard and drained, as if I hadn’t slept at all.

I cast a detect magic spell, hoping to find some explanation for the dreams, but I sensed nothing out of the ordinary. When I asked the others, no one else had seen or felt anything unusual during the night. It must have been my imagination, I told myself, though the memory of those green eyes lingered in my mind like a shadow.

We set out again on the next day, the 12th of Brigan, continuing our journey along the rough, overgrown path that skirted the edge of the forest. The trail was barely recognizable, covered in wet grass and mud, a clear sign that few travelers ventured this way. By the end of the day, our boots were soaked, our trousers caked in mud, and our cloaks filthy. The Northern Wetlands were as unforgiving as they were desolate.

As we searched for a campsite, that same foreboding feeling from the previous night crept over me. It was as if a pair of unseen eyes were watching me, filled with malice. I scanned the area but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Hayley pointed out a small path leading away from the main road to a clearing on a hill. She claimed it felt safe, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong. Still, we decided to investigate, hoping to uncover the source of my unease.

The clearing was littered with traces of refuse left by previous campers, but it was what lay beneath the bushes that caught my attention. I pushed aside the foliage to reveal the remnants of an old altar, its surface stained with ancient, dried blood. Next to it stood a small menhir, its surface covered in moss. I cast a spell to decode the druidic script carved into the stone. The menhir spoke of Brother Stalker and Sister Willow, ancient fey spirits of the land once worshipped by druids. They had a reputation for brutality, though I didn’t know what had become of them. The discovery sent a chill down my spine.

Determined to appease whatever spirit might be following me, I tasked Gael with catching an extra rabbit during his evening hunt. When he returned, I sacrificed the rabbit on the altar, hoping it would satisfy the entity. The blood was rapidly absorbed, and when I pulled my hand back, the rabbit’s body was completely rotten, as if it had been left out for weeks. The sight was unsettling, but I told myself it was a sign that the offering had been accepted.

Despite my lingering unease, we set up camp in the clearing. I cast several protective wards, hoping to keep whatever malevolent force was at bay at a distance. As I retired to my bedroll, the memory of the rotten rabbit and the ancient altar lingered in my mind.

The night was anything but restful. As I slept, I felt the eyes of several shadows watching me, their gaze filled with malice. In my dreams, I saw through their eyes, their twisted perspective fixed on our camp. The nightmares made me toss and turn, and sleep was fleeting, broken by the oppressive sense of dread.

When Hayley and Liliana were on watch, the camp was suddenly beset by nightmare shadows. These ethereal creatures, fey dream eaters, fed on the fear of sleeping individuals. They pulled Alistan and Liliana away from the protective spells I had cast, but the de la Roost siblings fought back with unwavering determination. Their swords cut through the strange, shadowy forms, but the creatures were relentless.

I woke with a start as one of the nightmares shrieked at me, its voice a cacophony of fear and darkness. My body moved involuntarily toward it, drawn by its malevolent presence. I could see its giant maw, twisting in shadows and darkness, ready to consume me. Around me, my friends were also under attack, each beset by their own nightmare.

Three of the creatures loomed near Alistan, their forms shifting and writhing. I flicked my wrist and sent a fireball hurtling toward them, the flames blasting through their shadowy forms. Turning to the nightmare next to me, I prepared for its attack. As it lashed out with its claws, I raised a shield of magic, deflecting one set of claws but not the next. Realizing I was outmatched, I scrambled away, my heart pounding.

I looked back just in time to see Alistan strike at one of the last nightmares, his sword cutting through its form. Seeing the shadow weakened, I sent a firebolt at it, the flames consuming its essence. With a final arrow from Gael, the last of the nightmares dispersed, leaving the camp eerily quiet.

We took a moment to catch our breath, our bodies and minds exhausted from the fight. Liliana said a few prayers, her voice steady and calming, while Hayley passed around healing potions. Eventually, we returned to bed, the protective spells renewed and the camp secure. This time, there were no nightmares, and the night passed uneventfully.

When we woke the next morning, the camp was quiet, the lingering tension from the night’s battle replaced by an eerie calm. My sister Hayley was the first to notice something unusual—a doll resting on the altar near us. As she picked it up, it felt familiar, like a relic from our childhood. It held a small bracelet with charms, delicate and worn, but I couldn’t quite place where I had seen it before.

Hayley whispered a quiet “thank you” to Sister Willow, her voice soft but filled with reverence. When I asked her about the doll, she reminded me of a story from our childhood. We had been playing hide-and-seek in the Lorewood, and Hayley had gotten lost. When she finally returned, she had a doll just like this one. I vaguely remembered teasing her about it, though the details were hazy. What had happened to the toy? I couldn’t recall.

The discovery left me unsettled. The doll felt like a message, a token from the ancient fey spirit Sister Willow. Whether it was a blessing or a warning, I couldn’t say. But it was a reminder that the land we traveled was steeped in old magic, and the spirits here were far from indifferent to our presence.

We packed up camp and continued our journey, the doll tucked safely away. The road ahead was still long, and the mysteries were far from solved. But as we moved forward, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched—not just by the shadows of the night, but by something far older and more powerful.

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Strange Dreams of the Northern Wetlands

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