The Chronicler rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and opened his journal. It was his fifth one to fill out. Most were of wondrous worlds of fantasy, magic, heroism, and conflicts of godly proportions. He had recorded several stories, in volumes, usually of adventurers hunting for justice. They became nearly gods they did. Some fell, some rose, and some just faded.
He turned to the first blank page, and began writing. He did not see the players in this dream yet but he saw the world. It was a barren world. A world of unrelenting brutality. The magic and wonder are replaced with predatory instincts and desire to survive.
He could feel the heat of the desert sun beating down on him, and he know that it was always that way. He knew that magic killed this world, because it siphoned all life from it. The Chronicler always felt some child-like amusement from the idea of magic having so much power. But the magic here felt withheld and selfish.
The elves and dwarves and halflings became something else. Bred to survive this harsh world, they became, feral, duplicitous, and focused. Hopelessness came over him when he dreamed. He felt like the world held him in its mouth and it was only a matter of when it’s teeth carved into you in a animalistic death.
Luckily the dream was short, so he only lost an hour of sleep. He put a small cloth bookmark in his journal, and just before closing the book, wrote a single question. He slept pondering the question.
What will you give to be free?