Within her prison of thorns and brambles, the ancient manipulator cackled as she was wont to do when things went according to her plans. One clawed hand patted her swollen stomach as the other stirred the boiling cauldron through which she watched the worlds. The crone spat as she swirled away images of the apocalyptic wasteland of Abaddon. "Pah! Let the old bag-of-bones come! By and by he'll die of old age afore he breaks my cage. A splittin' headache and a night of bad dreams get his robes in a bind. Still the addle-coved Horseman's been running a red one against me, sending his boatmen after Old Ravel. Nary a one can ferry into her city, send them back as dust she does."

The landscape shown in the vapors of the cauldron changed as the witch stirred. Hazy images formed of a land seen through smoked glass, the realm of the Ethereal. The view fixed upon a solitary palace made of a glowing green stone. The non-euclidean spires jutted in angles that made the palace appear more akin to a floating crystal than a stronghold. Ravel's sneer twisted into a broad grin. "Ah my loyal rustler." her hand patted her stomach again. "More horse than man in that rorty veil-face. Malvolio, my prized stud... Charon's nightmare." the night hag paused to chuckle at her own joke. "The dark of it is that you were my creation, and together we've made the Inner Planes slide. My Adam, I sat you on your throne and when the Wheel spins 'round again I may take it from you... or if this game of chess plays through you may be out-dreamed by your son..."

Stirring her cauldron, the prisoner continued to rant about her machinations, speaking mostly to herself, but also to her unborn child. She stirred, and as always, she waited.

*****

Amidst the black memory-stealing waters of the river Styx, Charon sat on a throne of skulls and soul gems within his Drowning Court. The Horseman of Death thrummed his bony fingers on an arm rest while one of his thanadaemons entered the chamber. Resembling its skeletal master, the ferryman bowed low before rising to speak in a hollow voice. "The Lady of Pain rebukes every attempt to find the crone's whereabouts. The offerings go unnoticed, the messengers- destroyed. I suggest..." the daemon stopped itself as Charon's glower bore down from the throne.

"Saddle a cauchemar, gather a cavalry, and ride to the Ethereal." the raspy voice of the Archdaemon was little more than a whisper. "Find an entrance to the region of dreams. Since Puzzlewell is protected by her imprisonment, my vengeance will be exacted upon the dream she forced me to create. Destroy it, no matter the cost." From the folds of his inky robes, Charon produced a glistening onyx the size of his fist. The emissary caught the gem as Charon tossed it from his throne. Silently the thanadaemon exited the chamber, knowing it was unlikely to return.

Once alone, the Horseman of Death sighed. For fifty turns that witch has been a thorn in my side, the harbinger thought. She poses no immediate threat, but the manifest dream I spawned may very well contain too many secrets within its being. And what purpose does it serve? The archdaemon steepled his fingers, lost in thought, comforted only by the rushing vortex of the Styx surrounding his palace. She is cunning, a trait that will never again be underestimated. For a decade she peppered my following with red herrings. Have I grown so old to be that blinded by her trap? To the Prime my Chloros bore me... to that lich-filled temple. The moment his hooves crossed the threshold, the final piece fell into place. The life-forces of those would-be pauper kings consumed to trigger an ancient rite. Those souls were mine to devour, and Ravel turned them instead to be the instrument of my dreaming imprisonment. Never had I taken slumber, ever-waking and ever-watchful... since the beginning, but that soul-peddling crone knew the proper lullaby. From that stupor her plans unfolded, and from my dream was created that specter- the pet she named Malvolio. In my anger at being bested I ignored the implications of my reverie, I sought only to restore the damage that had befallen my court in my absence. The dream animate has made a name for himself amongst dreamers, a palace forged of soulstone in the Dimension of Dreams... The emerald twins of light glowed within Charon's skull as he mused and remembered.

My thanadaemons will never breach Sigil, nor find Puzzlewell's maze... but I will not let the hag believe I have forgotten her slight. My army and my patience, are infinite. Whatever plans she has working, I will not be a part of them... nor will I let any of my secrets be discovered. The Horseman grinned as he sat back on this throne, planning his next expedition.

*****

Celairion brought his sword down in a wide arc, impulsively I parried with my own. This was a dance we had performed many times before. I know that I am dreaming, but this is one of the few dreams I enjoy revisiting, so I allow the fantasy to continue. Celairion laughs as he steps back, using his armor to blind me with the sun's reflection. This also is a tactic I know all too well and I raise my sword arm to block the glint. Polished plates of steel were never my fancy, and in my lighter armaments of oiled leather I maneuvered easily astride his range. Ah, to be so naive again. 

I stood much as I do now, though my garments were far less practical. My Celairion was, as ever, the knight he envisioned he would grow to become, a strong elf with golden locks and shining eyes that would put most skies to shame. My radiant twin, the light to my darkness. Side by side we painted quite the odd picture- he in his knight's armor, me in my traveler's jerkin. In our youth we pretended the men we would become... I have grown beyond my fancy, did Celairion's dream ever come true?

Our mock fight once more at a standstill, the elf's dream rippled, and in the wake of the knight the elf-child remained. Is this my dream anew or merely the remembrance of the time I spent in his? My dearest friend's impish smile widened, his eyes hidden by the mop of his straw-toned hair. Reaching forward to tussle his hair, I too was restored to my childhood form. I was accustomed to these transformations. Trapped within Celairion's dream, our shapes and skills were limited only by his imagination. We sat together by the side of a pond, one of his favorite scenes to create. Gazing into the water, I studied my reflection. My hair was long like my companion's, but if his was the sun, then mine was the morning sky it rested it. The blue mane fell to my shoulders, darkening the further they went to nearly black at the base. My eyes were amethyst twilights, my skin a dark cerulean. With my tapered ears, I fancied myself belonging to the mysterious race of dark elves Celairion would sometimes tell me of. Now, of course, I know the truth. I am touched by the planes, not the ancient treachery of elvenkind.  To my young host, I was not an abomination, nor a creature cursed. I was his best friend, his brother. I was simply Morpheo.

The sun began to set in the dreamscape; for me this was illusion, but for Celairion this meant the end of another day. I was never sure if days truly passed in the playing grounds of my childhood. From the Cottage of Thorns, one of the few permanent fixtures in our little world, my caretaker came calling, as she did every sunset. Celairion's smile drooped, but did not fade entirely. He knew tomorrow would bring new adventures. Nonny Knobble-Knees approached, her weathered face forever grinning. "Come along, child. The boy needs his rest." Nonny never called Celairion by name, she all but ignored him. Stars began to twinkle as I took her hand and allowed her to escort me to the Cottage. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Celairion's eyes go out of focus, and my friend slipped into his nightly torpor. What layers upon layers of illusion were wrought in that poor child's dream? This cannot be my dream, for now I would rush to wake him. No, once more I am merely visiting my past... trying still to answer riddles that were never written with conclusions. Illusions and simulacrums, fantasies and phantasms. As Nonny and I reach the Cottage, I try to open the door. Wake up, Morpheo, our sojourn to our childhood is over.

My eyes flutter open as I process the memory, but as always when the memories of my childhood come to call, I have little answers. I know that for countless years I was raised within the dream of another. Either by proxy or unlucky happenstance my physical form was kept within the confines of the dreaming mind of an elven boy. A child plagued by some horror that kept him comatose. The Celairion that I know and remember may not even be the person he truly is. In my years of worlds-walking since I have never been able to find him. In my limited knowledge of the magical workings of the worlds, I believe that whatever caused me to be his guest in the Dream World is the same force that prevents me from finding him in the Waking World.

To many, dreams are an escape. A way to get away from the mundane and the toils of life. To me they are passageways, tangible rivers and streams that can carry me to vast new destinations. I have learned that few natural creatures can dreamwalk. The realm where dreams begin is also tied to the realm where dreams end- namely where spirits travel after death. The Dreaming is an in-between world, a muted place seen through smoked glass. A realm scholars call the Ethereal. A realm filled with dreams, nightmares, and the restless dead caught between their final reward or their eternal punishment. I know the current of dreams as a fisherman knows the migrations of his favored catch. I am born of the Ethereal, but unlike a restless ghost, I straddle the Veil and the Waking World of Oerth. I am a creature in-between, but I know my destiny lies beyond half-places and sidestep jaunts into half-seen worlds.