Tales from the Dreamlands. Part One. ....Maybe.

The other night, I fall asleep, and when i wake up, Im back in the dream city of Carathis. Fuckbunnies. I have no happy memories of this place. I suppose trade was improving, and the city seemed to have prospered from it since the last time I was here. Certainly, the streets looked cleaner, though they were still lined with merchants selling their wares on either side, said wares copious in their variety and quantity, and said streets being thronged by an equally dizzying multitude of people. Note that i use the term 'people' in a very loose manner, blanketing sentient and uh, not-so-sentient organisms of every conceivable and inconceivable size, shape and form. But no matter what form life may take, some things are common to us all. As i was soon to find.

I must have found my way into a local dive, because the next thing i know, im sitting at this dingy bar, with a draught of Grok in my hand. Grok is kind of like beer. If your idea of beer is boiled and tri-filtered Yak urine. So Im sitting at the bar, minding my own business, wondering how on Earth to get back to..err..Earth, when there's a loud "slam!" and something heavy hits the floor. Obviously, I assume its the end of the world, and tipping my stool backward, fall to the floor, and cower under the bar, gripping my mug of Grok like a weapon (from which I didnt spill a drop, im proud to say). But instead of Yahweh's vengeance, what i find on the floor is a Lemurian policeman. Now Lemurians are legendary when it comes to drinking, and its something of a Lemurian tradition to be a cop. Kind of like the Irish, actually. Hmm..i wonder if there's something there..but I digress. Back to the bar. So im under the bar, and this Lemurian is under the bar, and it seems like he was the chap responsible for the "slam" i heard, having had one too many draughts of Grok, which is quite unusual, for a Lemurian. (Not the drinking, the falling after the drinking bit. There's no such phrase as "..too much to drink.." in any self respecting Lemurian's phrasebook) And he's wearing a policeman's uniform. So i do what any sane, honourable man would do in my place. I rifle the bastard's pockets for money. I find a dead fish, a rubber band, and some loose change. No money. Fuckin' coppers, cheap son of a bitch must be running a tab, i think. Then i see this piece of paper he's clutching in his hand, and i proceed to pry it from his cold, sozzled fingers. Nobody's stopping me from doing all of this, by the way, and this is quite common in any city of the dreamlands. They'd be doing the same to me, if I were to pass out from too much Grok. But i dont want to push my luck, and having recovered the scrap, i drop a coin onto the counter, and stumble on out of the joint.

The night air is refreshing, and I can feel my head clear up. So i fumble in my jacket for a cancer stick, light it up, and inhale, till i can feel my head getting fuzzy again. Better. I move towards the mouth of the alley, and just there is a broken streetlight, that i hope will cast enough of a glow to make out what's written on the scrap of paper. The paper is carefully folded, three times, and written on it, in an even, steady hand, is a letter...