There are repeated dreams, and there are sequential dreams, unfolded over several nights, often drug-dowsed. The Lords of Sleep were, at best, shadowy figures. Few had seen them, and even fewer had interacted with them on anything but a minimal level. Most knew they engineered dreams; some suspected that they prevented dangerous, revolutionary flights of fancy. But when the dreamworld began to seep into the real, a conference had to be called to verify, and to remedy. It was held at the Reales Alcazares in Seville. They arrived after all the other delegates, robed in black, just three of them. The hoods of their cowls hung so low that their eyes were covered. Only their mouths were visible. It was worked out later that they managed to see because a gauze panel was sewn into the heavier cloth, but they moved slowly, as though the view afforded was barely adequate. Embroidered on their chests, in the three primaries, were emblems of their order: the snake biting its own tail. None seemed to have precedence over the others. Answers might be given by any one, in no discernible sequence. Before the meeting the invasion of the oneiric had been lethargic, seemingly gathering pace, and then relenting somehow and withdrawing. At first people were amused by the purple, orange or green cats and dogs roaming about the streets for a while, before retreating to whence they came. Bears or giraffes lurking round corners had not been too unpleasant, but the increase of nightmarish elements started to perplex the general population. We all glimpse the weird and the frightening in dream sometimes, but the images are overwhelmingly private; they are our peculiar and particular elementals. To see others’ perversity was somewhat more disturbing than finding ourselves naked in class for a moment before waking, with the wish to grasp just why that scenario should have bothered us. That the river might turn bloody, or the sky viridian, disturbed further. Maggots pouring from gutters, or cockroaches as big as Samsa, became too much for the many, flying fish miles from ocean and snakes swallowing children pure outrage. The End of Conclave joint statement was couched in simple placatory language, but analysis by the deeper press pointed out the vacuity of it all: they did not know, any of the pundits, experts or rulers of the nightly realm. Scientists and data-collectors around the world began to investigate as thoroughly as resources would allow, but it was speculation by the tabloids that suggested direction. Someone must know, some coterie or clique must be directing operations, for whatever reason, to overthrow the fragile peaces agreed across the planet, between the warring factions, and across the borders of historically sworn enemies. But every proposal of reason was met with doubt and scepticism. If there was a mastermind behind the infringement, who then was it? If certain dream-weavers were unaware that they polluted the earth with their id-fuelled gaming, where might they be found? A conflict was developing where once none had been, the things within were now the things without. Engineers built prototypes designed by teams to detect brainwaves at a distance. Old methods of recording cerebral activity involved attaching sensors to patients to detect the possibility of recovery in high dependency wards. Some fringe elements had attempted to correlate certain patterns with certain pathologies, to identify criminals before they indulged themselves, but the funding dried up long ago, when no links could be firmly established. Now the race was on, to halt the melting of the barrier that separated waking from sleeping. The Lords busied themselves with investigations of their own. They were clued in by the appearance of new libraries, containing books that had never been written. They combed the pages of the ephemeral before they vanished back into intangibility. This meant huge numbers of acolytes rushing to each apparition as quickly as they could, but knowing what they sought before finding it would have helped considerably. The conclusion they arrived at prior to discovery was that there was a boy making up the monsters, oblivious while he was abed. How were they to solve this mystery? How find the sorcerer, or whatever he was, before the entire population was driven mad, that was the question? Whales flew overhead, castles rose from the sea fully formed, and populated. Snow fell in summer and dinosaurs came out of the jungles and mountain passes. Long dead famous people rose again to refute their own findings, but 20 Newtons, or 50 Leonardos gallivanting around in various countries at one time created more chaos and uncertainty, rather than putting to rest many unconscious conspiracies and misunderstandings of marginalia. Plans were agreed that the child would be detained, interrogated and stopped. This last supposition was fraught with danger. Some factions wanted him killed straight away, some wanted to study him, to find a way to block the manifestations. One wise old logician pointed out that The Dreamer (now capitalised) might easily escape by magicking many more avatars of himself to venture into hidden locations, speaking unexpected languages, sprouting wings if need be, opening portals into realms that would allow no entry to those bent on his destruction. The name was Lukas. Once found they closed in, the collection of Lords and analysts and self-appointed policers of the dreamed confusion. He was found and a plan fleshed out. They surrounded him as he dreamt. They were on the point of interrupting his continued slumber. Had they been able to see inside his head they would have realised he was sat at a café table dictating to a hooded figure with some weird-looking recording device. This organic-looking object churned out a ticker-tape with his gentle words. ‘There are sequential dreams and repeated ones. The Lords of Reverie were obscure figures at best. They prevented some from bodying forth the day’s cavorting interpretation. They had approached the prime dreamer and were about to wake him, with absolutely no idea of what would happen next…’There are repeated dreams, and there are sequential dreams, unfolded over several nights, often drug-dowsed. The Lords of Sleep were, at best, shadowy figures. Few had seen them, and even fewer had interacted with them on anything but a minimal level. Most knew they engineered dreams; some suspected that they prevented dangerous, revolutionary flights of fancy. But when the dreamworld began to seep into the real, a conference had to be called to verify, and to remedy. It was held at the Reales Alcazares in Seville. They arrived after all the other delegates, robed in black, just three of them. The hoods of their cowls hung so low that their eyes were covered. Only their mouths were visible. It was worked out later that they managed to see because a gauze panel was sewn into the heavier cloth, but they moved slowly, as though the view afforded was barely adequate. Embroidered on their chests, in the three primaries, were emblems of their order: the snake biting its own tail. None seemed to have precedence over the others. Answers might be given by any one, in no discernible sequence. Before the meeting the invasion of the oneiric had been lethargic, seemingly gathering pace, and then relenting somehow and withdrawing. At first people were amused by the purple, orange or green cats and dogs roaming about the streets for a while, before retreating to whence they came. Bears or giraffes lurking round corners had not been too unpleasant, but the increase of nightmarish elements started to perplex the general population. We all glimpse the weird and the frightening in dream sometimes, but the images are overwhelmingly private; they are our peculiar and particular elementals. To see others’ perversity was somewhat more disturbing than finding ourselves naked in class for a moment before waking, with the wish to grasp just why that scenario should have bothered us. That the river might turn bloody, or the sky viridian, disturbed further. Maggots pouring from gutters, or cockroaches as big as Samsa, became too much for the many, flying fish miles from ocean and snakes swallowing children pure outrage. The End of Conclave joint statement was couched in simple placatory language, but analysis by the deeper press pointed out the vacuity of it all: they did not know, any of the pundits, experts or rulers of the nightly realm. Scientists and data-collectors around the world began to investigate as thoroughly as resources would allow, but it was speculation by the tabloids that suggested direction. Someone must know, some coterie or clique must be directing operations, for whatever reason, to overthrow the fragile peaces agreed across the planet, between the warring factions, and across the borders of historically sworn enemies. But every proposal of reason was met with doubt and scepticism. If there was a mastermind behind the infringement, who then was it? If certain dream-weavers were unaware that they polluted the earth with their id-fuelled gaming, where might they be found? A conflict was developing where once none had been, the things within were now the things without. Engineers built prototypes designed by teams to detect brainwaves at a distance. Old methods of recording cerebral activity involved attaching sensors to patients to detect the possibility of recovery in high dependency wards. Some fringe elements had attempted to correlate certain patterns with certain pathologies, to identify criminals before they indulged themselves, but the funding dried up long ago, when no links could be firmly established. Now the race was on, to halt the melting of the barrier that separated waking from sleeping. The Lords busied themselves with investigations of their own. They were clued in by the appearance of new libraries, containing books that had never been written. They combed the pages of the ephemeral before they vanished back into intangibility. This meant huge numbers of acolytes rushing to each apparition as quickly as they could, but knowing what they sought before finding it would have helped considerably. The conclusion they arrived at prior to discovery was that there was a boy making up the monsters, oblivious while he was abed. How were they to solve this mystery? How find the sorcerer, or whatever he was, before the entire population was driven mad, that was the question? Whales flew overhead, castles rose from the sea fully formed, and populated. Snow fell in summer and dinosaurs came out of the jungles and mountain passes. Long dead famous people rose again to refute their own findings, but 20 Newtons, or 50 Leonardos gallivanting around in various countries at one time created more chaos and uncertainty, rather than putting to rest many unconscious conspiracies and misunderstandings of marginalia. Plans were agreed that the child would be detained, interrogated and stopped. This last supposition was fraught with danger. Some factions wanted him killed straight away, some wanted to study him, to find a way to block the manifestations. One wise old logician pointed out that The Dreamer (now capitalised) might easily escape by magicking many more avatars of himself to venture into hidden locations, speaking unexpected languages, sprouting wings if need be, opening portals into realms that would allow no entry to those bent on his destruction. The name was Lukas. Once found they closed in, the collection of Lords and analysts and self-appointed policers of the dreamed confusion. He was found and a plan fleshed out. They surrounded him as he dreamt. They were on the point of interrupting his continued slumber. Had they been able to see inside his head they would have realised he was sat at a café table dictating to a hooded figure with some weird-looking recording device. This organic-looking object churned out a ticker-tape with his gentle words. ‘There are sequential dreams and repeated ones. The Lords of Reverie were obscure figures at best. They prevented some from bodying forth the day’s cavorting interpretation. They had approached the prime dreamer and were about to wake him, with absolutely no idea of what would happen next…’