this is what dreams are made of

Dreams had always been important to the man. And why shouldn't they have been? Dreams were often visions in the disguise of a sleepy haze and fading memories, but true seers could decode and interpret them. Stjörnuáti hadn't spoken to a seer of his dreams in a very long time, but he still paid homage and respect to them. Still thought of them. And why shouldn't he?

Visions and dreams were how he had received his own name.

Still, that did not make any of this any less confusing. He had woken in a tangle of lavender and soft grass in a place that he did not know or recognize. Kajsa was absent, as was his children, and his mountain, and so Stjörnuáti did not panic. This was either a dream or another of the gods' jokes, though he was leaning towards dream with everything he saw. Or, thought... he saw. Something about this place was magic. He could feel it in his bones, in his soul.

Standing idly by had never been something he was good at, so on he walked, a feeling stirring within him that he could not quite quell.

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It is known that the gods speak through visions.

And each rest at night brings a new dream from a distant reality. The same fields. The same growth. The same wildflowers and rivers. For each, he is in the same place which he last walked and now he knows he’s intended to walk.

So, he marches the Mapenzi hunting for more than what meets the eye at a steady pace. In the horizon, a figure who takes the long walk too.
They march together then.

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