The Nomad Chronicles

I am sitting down at a wooden desk in a field of wildflowers on a mountain somewhere in Europe. I am writing a letter with a quill:

I am looking for people willing to delve deep into oneiromancy with me, to hack into this dream matrix.

Everything is illusion, everything is real. Life is dream, dream is life.

This is a team of superheroes, of fantasy heroes, of sci-fi heroes, of everyday heroes. We are whatever we want to be. We are Dream Warriors. I am on a quest for the truth. I seek to see through illusion always.

You will endure frustration and pain, and look at your dark side in the mirror.

I magically make copies of it, and seal them in envelopes with a wax seal, and press my signet into them. I send them all over the world on the wind, to tribal peoples, to secret government agencies, to lucid dreamers, remote viewers, and astral projectors.

Five people appear before me. One of them looks somewhat solid, but all are flickering holograms. The solid one is a woman RV'er that I recognize from the pocket dimension.

She shakes my hand, placing a small spiked object in it.

I wake up on the Moon.