Section Author: 'Zool'

High on the crags of Lonely Mountain, a perpetual storm whipped at the crumbling battlements of an ancient castle. Thunder cracked, the lightning brilliantly strobing the rainsoaked stone and bare mountain peak the castle rests on. A thin track wound it's way up to the castle gate, which stood open, for who would want to come here?

Deep in the castle a sinister figure sits. It is a large room, the walls covered by black curtains. The only light is from a small glowing brazier some distance behind the seated figure. Cloaked in black, nothing can be seen of the mysterious mage. A large ball, perfectly ground from jet black crystal, is floating in front of the figure. He appears to be concentrating, meditating on the crystal ball. "We are one..." he whispers hoarsely. "We are one."

Sparks begin to flash within the ball...

* * * * *

At the outer edges of consciousness, beyond the plane of fear, lies the place where dreams are made. In this realm between the light of today and the darkness of nevermore, of mis-spent regrets of the past and deep desires for what may never come, the Dream Weaver steadily labors.

To the heavenly sounds of the roiling celestial symphony, gleaming strands of infinite minutia are wound together in her loom of the unconscious, skillfully depicting the pattern of scenes and actions we see in our slumbering. We can see the larger pattern, but the secrets of the weave are hers alone.

She worked tirelessly at her loom, flying the shuttle, kicking the beater, constantly monitoring the weft and the warp. The strands she constantly checked and snipped, weaving the dreams she knew the dreamer would dream, with complete confidence and perfect skill. But then something made her pause...

She looked at the Jet black strand again in disbelief. This couldn't be right, she thought, staring up the length of the thread. But as was often the case, it was very difficult to make out details from outside of her realm, and it's origin quickly became indistinguishable among the infinite other meta-urges somewhere in the darker reaches of the Omniverse.

She had seen all manner of dreams, all manner of horrors and delights, of fantasies and memories, but something just wasn't right here. She had no choice but to use the strand, that was clear, but the fiber was of a severity she had rarely seen, it made her hand grow cold just to hold it. Checking the warp of the tapestry in progress, showing the horrible mismatch that was occurring out of the golden thread of the dreamer and the jet black thread available to her, she knew she would have to take action, as a tear was imminent with this strand.

She took a careful look at several of the other tapestries being completed that night. "Ah-ha," she said at the sight of what she needed. Deftly she picked up the silver shears and snipped a glowing thread, skillfully working it into the shuttle and letting it fly. The tapestry continued in a now workable pattern.

Thus a new strand was worked into the pattern, adding a new dimension to the twisting influence of the jet black thread. The Dream Weaver smiled a little smile in satisfaction at her work.

* * * * *

A sleeping figure lies in a jumbled mass of rags on the floor. The stone and wood room is dark, the one window boarded up. He mumbles to himself, deep in a dream.

He is dreaming of when he was a child. His father is near, the one light of his life. He is laughing and at peace, when the sky darkens. This is what normally happens in the dream, just before he sees the burned, mangled remains of what moments before was his father.

Suddenly something different happens. He looks up, and sees a furious dark storm approaching from the east. Then he looks west, at brilliant fleecy white clouds, and at a ray of sun which breaks free, picking him out, illuminating him like a god. The storm descends, and lashes him with it's fury. He feels the storm try to blow through him, trying disintegrate his spirit. "We are one," he hears. "We are one." The icy chill of the storm starts to penetrate the sunray he is caught in, and for a moment he feels as though his flesh is about to freeze, only to burst from the fiery heat of the sun...

But the cold cannot penetrate far. He feels a young woman near. She is the sun! He sees her features in bas-relief on the photosphere, and her hair and ebon cloak as flowing coronas waving in the cosmic wind. Together they bear the torment of the storm, easing it for each other somewhat. They are new to each other, but yet, they have something powerful in common...And then she breaks free. Like a lamp blown out, her flame is gone. He watches as in the blink of an eye she retreats back to the sky.

He sits bolt upright in his bed of rags, sweat pouring from his brow in the frigid air. Rats squeak at his sudden movement and scurried to the safety of their holes.

Outside the perpetual storm beat against the boarded up window. "I had better check with the master," he thought half aloud as he crawled from his bed and felt for the door. The storm had been more severe of late, which he knew meant he would be needed shortly.

As he climbed the steep winding stair up to his master's chamber, his mind returned to the dream he had just experienced.

For years he had been having the same dream, of his boyhood happiness, and then the death of his father when the marauders came and sold him into slavery. But that was 20 years ago, and a slave he might as well have been all his life.

But why the change now? He wondered at the hard real feeling of the storm, and the sun, and the woman's presence...

Most dreams were fleeting, unreal phantoms that left an impression, and then left. But not this one. This one felt so REAL! He would never forget the woman's face, literally burned into his memory like the rays of the sun.

He was nearing the chamber now, and his mind tried to return to his tasks, but still a part of him lingered on the dream. He hoped he would see the woman again, but was afraid he would also find the storm...