Your unconscious mind flutters from setting to setting, mashing themes together into a bizarre pastiche.
A figure sits down and begins sculpting a pile of mud. The being’s fingers deftly create a human form, but it all sort of slops apart into an incoherent mess. Perhaps mud isn’t the best medium for this. The figure gets up and walks away, leaving you behind. You stand up, seeing the world around you, forlorn…
You are a Fief Lord, dressed in +5 silks, your face a mess of scars from years of war and acne. You surround yourself with piles of precious meat coins and an array of lascivious Libidomancers. Nothing can stand in the way of your feudal glory.
Yellow eyes. The pupils are uncanny ovals, incapable of human emotion. They are alien, wholly Other, but they see you. They see into you. You are drenched in sweat and filth under their penetrating gaze.
But one of their black, ovaloid pupils erupts into a bright light, washing over you. It beckons you, inviting you to the ruminant consciousness.
Sounds exciting! From PeasantTech.