That night as he lay on the cold, hard stone floor of the corridor, he dreamed that the Waelyngar Valley had been drowned in a churning sea of blood, leaving only the top of the bluff—on which sat the citadel tower—exposed, a solitary island amidst a seemingly endless expanse of crimson water. He himself seemed to be located some distance away from it and hovering several feet above the surface of the sanguine sea. Somehow, he knew that he had to reach that island.
Inexplicably but conveniently, he found himself in a small, wooden boat—a dinghy, perhaps. He took up the oars and began to row. The boat slid along easily, without any energy expended on his part. In reality, it would have struck him as strange, eerie even, particularly seeing as the boat was pointed backwards.
The waters grew calm as he floated nearer to the island. A clean, white orb bobbed to the surface on the starboard side. Curious, he prodded it gently with his oar, and it turned over, revealing itself to be a human skull. How peculiar. Looking more closely about his surroundings, he discovered that this sea of blood was swimming with a variety of bones, floating lazily.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw that something had changed. While the island itself was exactly as it had been, the citadel castle no longer stood atop it. Rather, a different, darker fortress had taken its place. It had a ghostly, sinister appearance, and its architecture was of a much earlier time.
The boat slid silently onto the shore, and he climbed out. The grass was thick and came up to his knees, but it did not swish or shudder as he walked through it. The blood-sea began to recede as he climbed the hill. Perhaps the tide was going out.
Upon reaching the summit, he saw that he was not alone on the island. By the edge of the cliff, near the castle wall, was the figure of a woman. He tried to call out to her, but his voice would not function, so he approached her instead.
“Hello, Seymour,” she said, turning to him with a smile.