d100

Dreams & Visions

What a character dreams during a long rest - flavor or foreshadowing.

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Dreams & Visions — 100 entries
d100	Result
1	You dream of a door in a hillside, slightly ajar, warm light inside, and wake with grass stains on your boots.
2	A staircase descending through clouds; you count 99 steps and wake before the last.
3	You are a child again in your family kitchen; someone you never met is cooking, and they know your name.
4	An enormous library where every book is one day of your life; you shelve one yourself, high up, spine out.
5	You dream in a language you do not speak and wake understanding one new word. It will come up.
6	The party sits at a long table with empty chairs at both ends; food arrives for the empty chairs too.
7	You swim upward through warm dark water toward a light that is a lantern, held by someone patient.
8	A city of white towers you have never seen; a map seller there refuses your coin and gives directions instead. You wake remembering the third turn.
9	The classic: teeth, falling. But this time each tooth is a tiny die, and every one lands on six.
10	You stand watch over your own sleeping form; you nod to yourself; you both keep watch.
11	A field of wheat under two moons; something walks the far edge, very tall, minding its own business.
12	Your oldest friend, as they were, asking if you kept the promise. You wake mid-answer.
13	Rain falling upward from the sea into clouds shaped like ships.
14	You are a fox for the whole night: the world is smells and news, and the news is mostly good.
15	A game of cards with three strangers; you can never see your own hand, only theirs; they can see only yours. Someone is winning.
16	You re-walk a place you cleared long ago; it is swept, lit and lived-in now, and something small thanks you at the door.
17	You dream of your own funeral; the attendance is embarrassing - embarrassingly large, and someone gives a eulogy in a language of bells.
18	A market where memories are sold by weight; yours are on a middle shelf, fairly priced, one marked 'reserved'.
19	All night: the sound of oars. Just oars. Steady, calm, nearer by morning.
20	You climb a tower whose stairs are the spines of enormous books; the top room holds a desk, a lit candle and your unfinished business, neatly stacked.
21	Someone unseen braids your hair while humming; you wake with the braid.
22	You dream the party's next argument, word for word. You could prevent it. You know you will not.
23	A white stag at a crossroads inclines its head down one road; the road smells of woodsmoke and endings.
24	You are on trial in a court of animals; the owl defends you brilliantly; the verdict is 'improving'.
25	A parent's voice reads to you from the next room, one chapter of a story you never heard the end of, and stops, again, at the same place.
26	The moon, much closer, has a farmhouse on it, lights on, someone doing the washing-up.
27	You dream of the sea from below, looking up at the keels of ships like slow birds.
28	An armory of every weapon you almost bought or almost drew; the keeper says nothing; the inventory says plenty.
29	Snow falls in a throne room; the throne is a snowdrift; the crown, on it, is melting slower.
30	You spend the dream failing to pack a bag while something patient waits by the door. It is not angry. That is worse.
31	A bridge of held hands across a gorge; you cross on them; at the far end, everyone is someone you owe.
32	Fireflies spell slow words too gently to be read; the last three flash brighter: they are trying.
33	You dream you are the party's campfire, and you understand, for one night, everything said around you and everything unsaid.
34	A hallway of doors, each with a year on it; yours is unlocked; next year's is warm to the touch.
35	You harvest a field with strangers all day and are happy; at dusk the field is your life; the barn is full.
36	Wolves circle the camp in the dream, then settle, facing outward. Guarding. One looks back: you were never the flock.
37	You dream of a coin spinning that never lands. All night. You wake exhausted and decisive.
38	An old enemy sits across a small table, tired too, and you split a loaf without a word; the war continues at dawn but not tonight.
39	Every candle you ever lit, re-lit, in one cathedral of your small kindnesses. It is brighter than expected.
40	You are lost in a city where every street is named after a mistake you made; locals give directions kindly; they all live here too.
41	A dragon sleeps on a hoard of ordinary things: mittens, letters, a chipped cup. It opens one eye: the real treasure was obvious all along. It is not smiling. It means it.
42	The dream is just your childhood bedroom, exact, down to the draft - except it was never this safe. Someone made it this safe. Recently. For you.
43	You dream tomorrow's weather, exactly. It will be right. It is always right. It is never useful.
44	Stars rearrange into a face that mouths one word with great effort - a name only your childhood pet would answer to.
45	You walk a battlefield after; the fallen of both sides gather their things, compare wounds like fishermen, and catch rides home on the same carts.
46	An examination hall; the test is one question: 'Whom did you help?' There is plenty of space to answer. You need all of it.
47	You shrink to mouse-size in your own camp; the gear is cliffs; the watch-fire is a sun; your sleeping friends are a mountain range you know by heart.
48	A ferryman poles you across black glass; you pay with a memory you choose; you wake unable to recall what you gave, only that you chose well.
49	All your scars, walking around as small creatures, having a reunion; the oldest one gives a speech; there is, of course, cake.
50	You dream in maps: your life as coastline, your choices as rivers, and there - unmistakable, inland, unexplored - a capital city.
51	The tavern of everyone you ever traveled with, all ages at once; no one has to leave.
52	You are handed an infant by someone rushing off in a market crowd - 'mind this for a moment' - and the moment is the whole dream and you do a good job.
53	A tree grows through the dream at the speed of seasons; in its highest branches, caught like a kite, something you lost. Climbing is the whole dream. Reaching it is the waking.
54	Your weapons dream too, apparently; tonight you visit theirs: a peaceful smithy where they are all, briefly, farm tools.
55	You dream of the god you do not believe in, doing paperwork; your file is thick; the margin notes are fond.
56	Rain on a tent roof, all night, in the dream and out of it; but in the dream, each drop is a name, and you know almost all of them.
57	A staircase up the outside of a tower with no top; other climbers wave across the spiral; everyone is tired; nobody is stopping; morale is, oddly, wonderful.
58	Your shadow leads you through a door you have passed a hundred times; inside is one chair and a good view of everything you have been avoiding. The shadow waits outside. Kind of it.
59	The dream smells of your childhood festival; you win every stall game; the prize, at the last stall, is being tired and small and carried home.
60	You count sheep; the sheep count you back; the total, they insist, is off by one; the search is organized and warm, and you wake before learning who is missing.
61	An elder you loved putters in a garden that never existed, and gives you one clear instruction for a plant you have never seen. You will see it.
62	Every version of you from every choice not taken shares a long campfire; you compare lives; yours holds up; theirs are worried about you anyway.
63	You dream you are the villain - a good one, a considered one, with reasons; you wake unsure which side of some old memory you were actually on.
64	A chorus rehearses a song about your deeds; they keep stopping to argue over one verse; you never hear which. It is clearly the important one.
65	The night sky, but every star is a watch-fire, and around every fire someone is also looking up, wondering who is out there. The answer is: everyone. Everyone is out there.
66	You dig all night with friends whose faces you cannot fix; at dawn, in the dream, you strike not treasure but a bell - and its note is still in your chest when you wake.
67	A hallway of your held tongues: every unsaid thing, shelved and labeled; the archivist says storage costs are rising.
68	You fly, of course - the good dream - but tonight you carry someone, and the carrying is why the flying works.
69	The moon is a coin in a beggar's cup tonight, says the dream, and everyone who drops a kindness in gets change.
70	You re-fight an old fight and lose on purpose this time, experimentally; the world does not end; interesting.
71	A dinner where every dish is a rumor about you; some are delicious; one is raw; the host watches you decide which to swallow.
72	Your name, called across water, in a voice you almost place; the dream is you, rowing toward it, all night, gaining.
73	Snow buries the camp gently in the dream - no cold, no fear, just quiet accumulating - and everyone's watch-candles glowing through it like windows.
74	You inherit a house made of every room you ever slept in, assembled badly, lovingly; the hallway between your childhood bed and last night's inn is four steps long.
75	A council of your future selves reviews your current plans; minutes are not shared; the vote, someone lets slip, was close.
76	You dream the exact weight of everything you carry - pack, blade, debts, names - and of setting one thing down. You wake not knowing which. Lighter, though.
77	A dog you buried long ago brings you a stick in the dream, once a year, tonight; the stick, this year, is a branch of flowering wood.
78	Every door you ever closed softly so as not to wake someone: a corridor of them; behind each, the someone, still sleeping, still safe, because of the softness.
79	You are on a ship of sleepers - crew, passengers, all dreaming - and realize, at the wheel, that so is the helmsman, and so are you, and the ship is doing fine.
80	An office where your worries are assessed: most are ruled 'not yours'; two are stamped 'overdue'; one is waived entirely, with a small note: 'paid by another'.
81	The monster under your childhood bed, present day: retired, gray at the muzzle; it kept the job, it says, long after you stopped needing it, just in case.
82	All the maps you ever misread, corrected, laid over each other: they align into one place. It is not far from here.
83	A memory older than your memories: the lullaby, sung forward this time, by you, to someone smaller. You cannot see who. Your arms know how heavy.
84	A game of hide and seek across a whole city at dusk; you are the seeker; everyone you have lost is hiding; the dream is warm; the seeking is the point; you find two.
85	The party, decades on: gray, scarred, loud, alive, arguing over one detail of a story that happened, by the fire of an inn one of you clearly owns.
86	You stand guard at a door and are relieved at last - by yourself, younger; you brief them; they salute badly; you finally go inside.
87	It rains tiny silver fish in the dream, and everyone runs about with buckets and laughter, and the town eats for a week; you wake smelling faintly of a good harbor.
88	The book of your life, mid-shelf, well-worn - someone is reading it, ahead of you, and laughing at a part you have not reached. Encouraging, honestly.
89	You walk the bottom of a drained lake: everything every liar ever threw in, labeled; everything every lover ever threw in, glowing.
90	A stranger asks directions - to a place only you know, from a memory only you hold; giving them, you realize you are the map now; you wake with the fact intact.
91	Your hands, working, all night: mending, kneading, hauling, holding - a full accounting of your hands; they have done, it turns out, mostly good.
92	The last door of the dream-dungeon opens onto your own campsite from outside - and for one held breath you see your sleeping party the way the dark sees it: small, bright, guarded, worth it.
93	You barter at a stall that sells time you thought you wasted; buying some back, you find it was not wasted; the merchant knew; the merchant always knows; first taste free.
94	An avalanche in slow motion, petals instead of snow; the mountain is apologizing as best a mountain can.
95	You dream the same small kindness you did years ago - from the other side, receiving it. So that is what that felt like. Oh.
96	The stars go out one by one - calmly, lamps at closing time - and the dark that follows is not empty; it is backstage; the crew is resetting for tomorrow; one stagehand winks.
97	A ledger balances at last, in a dream of columns: taken, given; the clerk - you know the clerk - shows you the final line and taps it twice: carried forward.
98	You wake within the dream, and again, and again, each waking into a slightly better morning, until you stop checking - and that one, the unchecked one, is real. Probably. The tea tastes real.
99	No images tonight: just the certainty, delivered gently, that somewhere someone dreamed of you - kindly, and recently, and it mattered to them. You will walk differently tomorrow.
100	Roll twice more; the dreams are one dream; you will realize this at the worst possible moment, or the best.