The Riven Realms
Mysterious black book you received from The Dark Rider. Many pages have been torn from the front and the rest are completely blank.
Book of dreams. Records the dreams/nightmares of whomever holds it.
You see dark clouds whirling around people, as it does, their faces turn gaunt, their clothes bleed of all colour and their eyes go black. Suddenly, walking between them, are others who seem unaffected, their clothes bright and vibrant, their spirits high. They seem to walk freely and without care. Darkness envelopes your vision and fades to a different time, the same people, those with bright clothing, are here again, tending to the wounds of a handsome Lord wearing expensive clothing. Among them is a lady, middle aged and quite beautiful, she is leading the group. You draw closer to her face as a strange mist clouds half of it for a moment. The mist circles and spirals before dropping away, revealing another man’s face – the two now appearing as one. It is the man they are tending to, you realise you know him, it is Strahd, the Count of Ravenloft.
You see an old windmill, with blades made of bones instead of wood. Dust and smoke billow from the chimney as the harrowing cries of children piece your ears. You see three women dragging large sacks towards the windmill, the sacks appear to be moving, something inside desperately trying to escape. They throw the sacks into the windmill, it’s door opening like a hungry beast being fed it’s latest meal. All colour disappears, replaced by shades of red and black as the windmill consumes the sacks. The three women turn to you, their faces old and wart ridden. They smile and each hold out a single pastry, the top of which bursts open and begins to bleed. The mad women cackle as the blood drips over their hands, behind them the windmill groans as the door opens. From within, a flood of blood flows out the door, engulfing you as everything goes pitch black.
You see a church on fire, harrowing screams emanating from the scorched halls. A figure stands at the centre of the blaze, proper and regal, it is the devil Strahd. At his feet lie countless bodies victims of a brutal attack, their blood staining the earth a horrible glistening red. Amongst the anonymous dead there is one face which you recognise – Ireena’s, she has been cleansed – two fresh punctures adorning her neck. Suddenly her eyes flicker open, milky white and soulless. She smiles, revealing two pronounced canines before emitting a piecing shriek. The world goes black.