This is from the recollections of Le Aauin, explorer of the dreamscape, as transcribed by Ad Dakhla beneath the gaze of perfect, immortal Vloles set upon the Dreaming Moon.

Most fortune seekers head south from the Black City of Korton, seeking the Silver Sea, and thence the Dead River and the hoped-for path to the Dreaming Moon. I eventually turned my sights south, as well, but there is far more to the dreamlands than that. Another theory holds that the true answer to the nature of the dreamlands, of Vloles, and of life eternal, lies northwards.

I won’t go into the journey that lies ahead for those who are willing to set off from Korton and cross the plains of Laïs beneath the deadly light of Køs the Cruel Star. But at its end lies the city of Insbara, which exists almost entirely to support those who enter its labyrinth. Ask anyone in the city about it, and they will tell you–while trying to sell you food, shelter, and supplies–that the center of the labyrinth contains the word of Vloles, carved in a steady hand.

Who needs to reach the Dreaming Moon to uncover the truth, when it has been written down so carefully for them?

The labyrinth is dark, featureless, onyx. I explored only its uppermost chambers out of curiosity, and soon found it to be a profoundly deadening place. Cut off from light, from all but the loudest noise, and the little details which attend life on the surface, and you slowly find yourself going mad. The non-euclidean contours of the place are the shadows of madness. Nothing, from singing songs to making maps, lessens this feeling of alienation. When it became too much, I left.

The citizens of Insbara received me graciously, and informed me that I had been gone a week.

The labyrinth is a fate worse than death: the further you go, the slower time moves for you. There are explorers down there, still eating the food they bought from dead men centuries ago, still winding their way to the center of that cursed place. Seven lifetimes or more of that misery that I felt for just a few short hours–or weeks–is not something I would wish on the most evil being in all creation. Perhaps perfect, immortal, inscrutable Vloles finds it amusing–the answers are there, writ in crystal eternal, but forever out of reach

I asked an Insbaran what they thought awaited at the center of the labyrinth. “A circle of men,” they said, “hundreds if not thousands strong, frozen in time like fish in a winter river, damned not only to never reach their prize, but never to even see it, for they will be blocked by the bodies of others who have failed before them.”

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