Dereno had begun to nod off in the warm, cozy atmosphere of the Dancing Donkey, the conversations, the bard, the clink of glasses, thud of mugs, and the sound of the fire all had done their part to make the elderly Dunmer's head begin to dip. It had been a long time since he had been in such a cozy place. His mind drifted into the ethereal, wandering through his vast experiences, sampling memories at random until, like a spider weaving a web, the pastiche of a dream had been formed. 

He was at home, suddenly. Not Tel Dereno, his tower on the outskirts of Tel Branora, but Vvardenfell itself. He stood in a large tower, surveying a scarred, ashen landscape. At the edge of his vision, he could just make out giant, shimmering energy walls. He furrowed his brows at the curious sight, attempting to place them. Was that the Ghostfence? 

This wasn't the Vvardenfell he grew up in, then. The legendary fence had finally disappeared as Vivec's stolen power faded when the Heart had been struck to fell the mighty Dagoth Ur, the Sharmat. Not immediately, mind, but by the time he was strong enough to visit Red Mountain the fence had long gone.

Dereno felt a presence next to him, and looked to see who it was. An old nord, his hair balding into a tonsure, stared out over the scarred mountain and it's ashy foothills, and sniffed. He looked familiar to Dereno, in some distant way, some face he had seen everywhere but hardly remembered the specifics of due to familiarity. 

"I find myself dreaming quite often these days." The old nord said, "I'm not young like I used to be. Sleep calls to me now more than it ever has."

The old nord regarded the old Dunmer, and smiled, his face crinkling into a mess of crags and scars, but the expression was warm.

"I think that the old sleep often to prepare themselves for the grave." He said, seriously, "What do you think?"

Dereno blinked, and found he had trouble speaking. His mouth flapped open and closed a few times, but no words came.

"It's alright. You have a while to think on it, I believe." The old nord looked out to Red Mountain again, the smile fading from his face. "You have more pressing concerns, Mastdar Dereno. You will be needed very soon."

The old nord raised his hand, slapped Dereno's back-

- and he woke up. 

Dereno looked around. The tavern's welcoming atmosphere had suddenly cooled. The talk hadn't stopped, the bards hadn't stopped singing, but something was off. Hakon had moved from his table, and was halfway out the door. Dereno could only see one arm, his legs, and his back, but he could hear the blacksmith's deep voice. He stood up suddenly, without using his arms to balance himself, and, in a bit of Telvanni flair, summoned his staff. The staff, which he had laid on the floor next to him, stood up like it had been alive and shot into his hand with a satisfying thwack!

"Excuse me, dear boy." Dereno said, sliding past Hakon - and Graunille, who he had been apparently talking to. The local enchanter and the blacksmith, eh? "Oh, and excuse me as well, Lady. I simply wish to take in the sea air."

He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the moonlit night. He looked down, seeing the mist that was waist height, and the moon in the sky. It was large, and it was bright - too bright. A killing moon. A blood moon. It made his guts twist just to look at it sitting there in the sky.

He looked to the others, his face grave. 

"I think something's about to happen." Dereno said to them both. "I'm sorry to be so forward; we don't know each other very well, but please be patient with this old Mer - this night is about to put us in peril."