The journey to the foot of Mount Dream is harrowing. Nearly every step of the way, you are harried by rogue spirits, hungering after the warmth of life, the light of a soul. Your dagger seems to have no effect on them, and when you try to call upon the might of your ancestors, the magic runs wild; sometimes your calls are answered, sometimes they are not, and sometimes you teleport yourself 30 feet straight up instead of closer to the mountain. You’re just glad you didn’t end up 30 feet stright down. Night falls, and you don’t stop to rest, as the spirits grow even thicker as the world grows darker. Dawn finds you sprinting the final miles over the rough ground to the foot of the mountain.
Finally reaching the mountain brings little respite. The attacks from the spirits stop immediately, but you know you cannot rest here. Whatever is driving magic to run wild in the surrounding plains has its root here. Even the physical world seems wrong, and you’re afraid your dagger might start behaving strangely. But even more, you sense a dreaming mind might wander off and lose its way back completely. The dangers facing you are no longer physical, though they could slay you even more quickly.