Digital Dreaming 1.01: “An Unexpected Awakening”

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Lysander Scot woke up in a bed that was decidedly not the one that he had fallen asleep in. The alarm clock on the bedside table was the first clue. Almost without thinking, he reached over and set it facedown, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings in which he found himself. Plush carpet, upscale wall art, entertainment center, desk, wall mirrors. He was in a hotel.

He slowly levered himself up on his elbows. Not one he was familiar with, either. Lysander threw back the covers and padded over to the desk. A fan of tourist brochures and hotel stationery provided some quick answers. He was in a hotel called the Foshay, in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

What was he doing in Minnesota?

The sound of a key card sliding into the lock on the door broke his bemused contemplation. Lysander glanced around the room, quickly. One thing he had not noticed earlier was any sign of clothing—his or anyone else’s.

The door swung open. The maid started as she caught sight of Lysander. He was adjusting the sleeve on a crisp, black Armani suit.

“I seem to be running a bit late this morning,” Lysander said calmly. “I’ll be checking out in an hour, if that’s alright. I’ve already called down to the front desk.”

“Oh, yes sir. Excuse me, I didn’t realize.” The maid nodded and backed out of the room.

The door clicked closed and Lysander’s suit dissolved, vanishing like a morning dream—which it was, a last fragment of the dream he had been having right before waking up in this hotel. Dream sorcery was not always the most practical of magical arts, but it certainly had its uses.

Lysander paused for a moment to take stock. He was alone in a strange city with no phone, no money, and no clothes save for the skivvies he currently had on. He didn’t know how he had gotten here—or, for that matter, why he was here—and he certainly didn’t have any friends or acquaintances in the area. What’s more he couldn’t—make that wouldn’t—leave until he had figured out the answers to these oh so pressing questions.

However, doing so necessitated no few things. The first of which, Lysander decided, was a set of clothing that would last longer than a few moments and wouldn’t dissolve like morning mist in bright sunlight. Some spare cash wouldn’t go amiss, either. He had the room to himself for another hour, or so. Best to make good use of that time.

Lysander turned, flopped down on the bed, and promptly fell back asleep.


The dreams of Lysander Scot surrounded him, familiar and mysterious all at once. Right now they were little more than nebulous silver mist, still untouched by the promptings and omens of his subconscious mind. That suited him just fine. The mists were easier to shape than dreams full blown.

Lysander reached out with a gesture—unnecessary for this working, but a comfortable habit. The mist responded by taking shape. Walls appeared, of a strange imagined stone that sometimes rippled like water. Then shelves appeared, looming out of the mists. Lysander gestured again and a small globe of fire appeared, pushing the mist back even further. Items began to appear, shelves and shelves of things wondrous and strange and surreal and mundane. A warehouse of dreams you never left home without.

Author: Trip Galey

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