Moes' Dream Prison

You (Moes), are in a tricky spot. You're charmed and think of the inspired leader who cast Charm on him as a friendly acquaintance. With the rest of the party escaping, you feels safe with the agents of the dreaming dark.
They convince you to come back to the fort, and there they use a mix of suggestion spells and charms to keep you pliable until they were able to get you drugged into basic unconsciousness.
What follows is a sort of dream-fugue that you experience without waking. Time passes, and beings of many shapes pass through the landscape of your dreams.
These dream beings are terrible. Inhuman.
One called Sagono

And another called Matamo

But the one that spends the most time with Moes is called Wajda .

Wadja is one that knows you a bit already. Wadja was the quori that was inspiring Borat Wajda, who leads the quori mission in the Nightwood, the splinter sect called the Hiath Phela.
Wadja spent what felt like lifetimes in Moes’ dreams. Key moments from his life became playgrounds for the quori….

You are a young calf, walking up a cool stream behind your mother, feet wobbling on water-rounded rocks on the riverbed. She calls your name, points to a bend in the river ahead, where erosion has exposed the gray clay beneath a mound that is half eaten away by the river. She takes you to the clay, teaches you to identify it by feel and smell, talks to you about the way the primal energies of the earth imbue the clay with potential magical energies. She gives you a digging stick and basket, smaller versions of your own, and shows you how to dig out the clay you need for your projects. And as you start to dig, pushing the stick hard into the dense clay, the first clod falls into your basket, and a great red eye is revealed behind it. The eye burns at you, and you want to look away, but you can’t. Your mother seems not to notice as more eyes start to appear in the clay, red and hot and intent on you. A voice in your mind says “the power you tap comes from the earth, from the meat of the place, and it is therefore limited, finite, scarce, while the gifts of dream know no bounds….”

Your dreams are confused, and you have only small groggy moments of awareness when you are not dreaming. You are in a bed, resting, being cared for by tattooed, beautiful people. They are feeding you, giving you sponge baths, sitting with you. You try to speak and they touch your lips, giving you the tube again for more food. Then you drift back to sleep while the warm gruel feeling enters your belly.

You are a maturing bull, sitting around a cook fire with the rest of your tribe. It’s deep night, the mead has been flowing, and this may be your first time being drunk. A halfling bard is playing a jig on a viol, and you and some of the other young Firbolgs are dancing and careening into each other while the adults look on and laugh. You remember this night, it ended badly, with a heifer you were convinced you were in love with pairing off with another one of the tribe’s eligible bulls. But this time, she careens into you, and in this version of the scene you seize the moment in a way you did not in your true memory. You stay with her, collide with her again, look into her eyes and the two of you circle each other through that jig and the next, and the next, until you are leaning on each other, exhausted from dancing, and you wander away from the light of the fire into the dark of the woods, where you kiss, and you mount her, and in the moment of the memories of the pleasures that you never had in your real life, the memory stops, and from behind a tree the being made of swirling red eyes appears, and it speaks in your mind, “this pleasure was not yours in your limited, waking life, where the fault and missteps and misfortunes cannot be remade, but in the dreamscape you can rewrite them all, live the life you wanted, you deserve, you can linger here, in this moment of pleasure, never having to let it end, stay here and never feel alone or inadequate again. This is where you are complete….”

In your moments of wakefulness, you begin to pick out the leaders among the vessels. The inspired move with confidence and purpose that the vessels lack. Among the inspired there seem to be ten or more, with two lieutenants and one leader, Borut Wadja. And behind Borut’s violet eyes you see the redness of Wadja’s eyes from your dreams.

You are working clay in your hut, fresh clay pulled from the river as your mother taught you. You feel the clay, and let it inspire you, and in your communion with the clay you find yourself creating the rough form of what will become your homunculus, Clay. Your hands move and the shape comes out as if you had made it hundreds of times before, but this was your first time making a small figure like this. When it is complete you bend down and blow a kiss of breath into Clay’s mouth, and he shifts and moves on his own for the very first time, stretching and reaching like a child waking up from sleep. And when Clay’s one eye opens it is the red eye of the Wadja. Clay stands up and starts to grow, and while he grows he speaks, small red eyes starting to appear on this shoulders and chest, “You are mine and I am yours and together we dream this existence into being, we shape it and make it our own. We are the best of friends, so close it’s not clear who created whom, who saved whom, we are both father and son, brothers, and partners.” At this point he has grown to be larger than you, and he cradles you in his warm clay arms as more and more eyes appear. “You have given me life so I can care for you and yours. Lay your head back, father/brother, rest now, and let your dreams flow, your dreams give me and everything else around us life, and your dreams will bring you joy.”

You know that you have defenses – spaces inside yourself that you hold on to and where you are certain the dreams cannot find you. And you know that the dreams you have are the result of Wadja and the others trying to penetrate those defenses. You feel the walls around your self growing weaker, the things that you remember as real becoming mixed up with the things that you know are dreams, and you know it’s only a matter of time – how much time has passed? How long have you been in this place? – before they break down any defenses you have and the dreams are everywhere, and there will be nothing left that is not dream.
And then the pressure stops. Your mind feels the removal of the attention of the dream invasion like the passing of a thunderstorm. You drift in your subconscious, your thoughts feeling has hard to move as very stiff, leathery half-dried clay. You can’t make the clay take the shapes you want it to, can’t fight your way through it, and you know you are struggling to awaken when the tube enters your throat again, and darkness comes.