"Are we there yet?"

"No. By definition. Because we don't have anywhere we're going."

"Are we at somewhere interesting yet?"

"I don't know, are you interested by it?"

There’s a wide area of landscape—larger than a city, probably—which looks to be controlled by a powerful dreamer of its own. Most of it is wilderness (here tundra, there forest, there plains), but paths snake through it, leading to houses, farms, portals to the nether world. In the center, the beating heart of the dream is a building floating atop water; the walls on the outside are brick, but inside they are aquariums swimming with tropical fish. There is a man there in a green cloak and a smiling mask (if it is a mask).

Off to the side, there’s a field and lake walled off with the strange black brick of another world. Inside is a van, three teenagers, a fox-man, and two people who look to be in their early twenties. 

"This interesting enough for you?"

"Potentially."

“Hello! Who are you?” (This is addressed to both of them.)

"I am Randolph Carter, traveler, bearer of the silver key, friend of cats and ghouls, former king of Ilek-Vad, and lover of She Who Is No More, who has journeyed to unknown Kadath in the far wastes and sailed the sunless skies and been taught the secrets of time and space by Yog-Sothoth who is the Key and the Gate. I request hospitality and guest-friendship."

"I didn't know you were her lover. Should I be jealous?"

"Shut up."

(Quiet giggle.) “Honored stranger, you are welcome to stay here as long as you want. You may call me Dream.”

That name is a hell of a brag. He wonders if this Dream can back it up. "What is this place called?"

“It doesn’t have a name, it’s just— mine. My dream. Wilbur might have a more specific name for it, I’m not sure, but I’ve never seen the need.”

Dream, who built the city of Dream, in the Dreamlands, which you go to by dreaming. He can sense that this Dream is a powerful dreamer but he can't imagine how. 

"We need a place to sit down. And food. And art supplies." 

“I can provide those.” And here they are. 

"I'm a ghoul," Pickman says. "I eat corpses. Human by preference but if pig's what you got I'll settle."

“No human, I’m sorry. I can go searching for corpses later.” A pig should wander by— Dream stabs it, it should die quickly and cleanly—

Pickman makes a face. "Is there somewhere we can put it for a couple days until it's nice and rotten?"

"It's fine, ghouls only need to eat once a week or so."

“Of course. I’ve never met a ghoul before, sorry if I’ve been rude.”

"Mostly we live in the lower Dreamlands where you can easily cross over to Earth, where people have the dignity to leave corpses when they die. But here I am stuck following around this asshole--"

"I love you too."

Snort. “Are you looking for anything or just wandering?”

"We are looking for mayhem, adventure, beautiful maidens of any gender in need of rescue, dark secrets, ancient gods, lost and/or forbidden lore--"

"--and beautiful vistas for me to paint."

"And beautiful vistas for Pickman to paint because let's be real here self-portrait has not been his area of artistic strength for the past ninety years."

"I'm extremely handsome according to ghoul beauty standards."

"Which mostly involve amount of dripping viscera."

“We have some of those! No beautiful maidens that I’m aware of. I’d say we don’t have any forgotten lore but I suppose I wouldn’t know, would I? Definitionally.”

"Well, someone has to know the forgotten lore or we wouldn't be able to uncover it."

“If you want mayhem, we’re going to war in two days. If you’re interested. If you’re not, it should be pretty easy to avoid.”

"Oh. Excellent. Who against?"

“Just some annoying kids—well, teenagers, they’re all past the age that kids normally grow out of dreaming, but they’re still annoying. They decided to declare independence, there was a whole thing over it, if they don’t surrender in two days then we fight.”

"You could just let them secede. If they're annoying."

“I don’t want—division like that. And it’s not true, like, they can say whatever they want but it’s not—” Dream cuts himself off in frustration. 

Yeah, so, this guy sucks and he's going to help the kids. 

"What's not true?"

“It’s still mine, I dreamed it up, it’s my memories, it listens to me. They can say they’re independent but it doesn’t mean anything.”

"That's not how the Dreamlands works, you know."

“No?”

"You made it but that doesn't mean it belongs to you. Any more than a story or a poem or a song belongs to the person who makes it."

"Yeah, building a city will absolutely not stop the elder gods from leaving Hatheg-Kla to take it over."

“That doesn’t mean they should.”

"'Should' and an Elder Sign will bind a nightgaunt."

“They’re the ones saying I shouldn’t come in because it’s theirs. I’m not the only one making claims here.”

This is why he stopped being king of Ilek-Vad. He hates politics.

"Well, they're the ones who are using it."

"I suppose. It sets a bad precedent, though, doesn't it? I don't mind them using it but I'm not going to listen when they say I can't come in. You said it was like a song--if someone told the person who wrote a song that they couldn't sing one of the lines anymore, that would be wrong too."

Politics is so not his strong point.

"Well, regardless, it is lovely. Pickman'd like to sketch it."

“Of course. Does paper and ink work or should I get canvas and paint as well?”

"Paper and ink works."

"He was a famous artist in his day, you know. Although no one's heard of him for decades."

"I have been utterly lost to history," Pickman says cheerfully.

“I’d love to see your work if you’d be willing!” Have some paper and pen. 

Pickman sets himself to sketching a landscape. 

"I think sometimes they put his work on... Tumbler? Or something like that."

"Huh. Good for him."

Randolph Carter wants to go talk to the teenagers. Unfortunately, subtlety is not his strong point. 

"So, how're you planning to do this war?"

"...Well, if they don't surrender by dawn tomorrow, we go in and try to kill them. And they try to kill us, presumably. We're better fighters, though, soooo." Shrug.

"I think I'm going to go talk to them."

“Alright. Do you need directions?”

"Directions help. Pickman, you good?"

"I'm not getting involved in any wars. I am a peaceful artist. --Do you think there will be bodies?"

“No. Well, probably not. Fundy was born here but he’s the only one.”

"Try to aim at Fundy."

"Rude."

"He's the one who started a war. He knows the risks he's taking."

Snort. “I’m not going to aim at Fundy. Their faction is straight that way on the path, and then make a left through the forest, there’s a brick wall around it.”

"See ya."

Randolph Carter is going to follow the directions.

The walls are made of a black brick, not like the red brick from Earth; there are crosses carved into them, either as windows or for shooting arrows through, and bits of bright yellow stone stuck on top. 

A voice calls out: “Stop! As president of this great nation, I order you to identify yourself at once.”

Does he have to give the speech again. 

"Randolph Carter, traveler, bearer of the silver key, friend of cats and ghouls, sworn brother of King Kuranes and soulmate of Richard Pickman, who knows the secrets of Iranon and rode a Ship-Self and stood face to face with the Crawling Chaos Itself. I request hospitality and guest-friendship."

There's a pause and then: "Yeah, okay."

Two people come out from the walls, both wearing a blue uniform with accents of red, white, and gold. One is a man in his early twenties with curly brown hair, the other a blond teenage boy.

The teenager is the first to speak up; his voice is definitely not the same one that had been speaking a moment ago. "Where are you from?"

"Providence, Rhode Island."

“Is that in America. That sounds American. Wilbur is that American, is he an American.”

“Yes, Tommy, he’s American. Wait, though, let’s hear him out.”

"What is your problem with Americans?"

“They’re so fucking, American, they’re all, ooooh my name is Dweam and I’m American—“

(The boy is speaking English with a strong British accent.)

“Do you even know if Dream is American or does he just have an American accent when he speaks English.”

“THAT’S NOT THE POINT.”

"I don't think it makes sense to hold it against all Americans that Dream is an asshole. I don't hold it against my husband that a bunch of other ghouls tried to eat me."

“Yes it is.”

“It’s okay, Tommy, it’s like how Niki can join us when she gets here. We accept all nations, genders, creeds, and sexualities.”

“I guess.”

"If it makes you feel better I haven't lived in Providence in fifty years."

“Wow. You’re old. How old are you, are you older than Philza?”

"Hundred and twenty nine in June."

“Well, shit.”

“Not older than Philza, then.”

“Still. That’s so old.”

"How old are you two?"

“I am a Big Man. I’m in the prime of my fucking life, baby.”

“Sure you are.” Wilbur ruffles Tommy’s hair, ignoring his protests. “I’m 24, I’m the oldest here. Not sure how old Tommy and Tubbo are, honestly, they won’t say, but I’m pretty sure they’re young. Fundy is just a few weeks old. —Well. Eret might be the oldest here, actually, they say they’re younger than me but there are these legends...”

The big question here is whether helping the side he likes is worth hanging out with a bunch of nemos.

"The prime of your life can be six."

"I am the best age."

This was the problem with not having Pickman, Pickman would have said "six isn't prime." No one gets the setups for his horrible jokes. 

"I am considering which army I want to enlist in."

"Well, man, it's your choice. If you want to side with--with a tyrant who is keeping us down--you can do that. Or you can join us and stand with the people, and help resist Dream and his oppression."

"See, I need more specifics than that to make a decision. Anyone can say they're opposing a tyrant."

"...Well, it technically started with some business with us starting a drug van and Sapnap arresting us, but it didn't--it didn't actually start until we decided to secede? Basically, we declared independence from his land, he said we can't do that, we said yes we can, he said that this means war. So, y'know, war."

"Starting a... drug van? What were you selling, liao, black lotus...?"

Who let nemos take drugs.

"No no, see, we weren't actually selling anything, we were just going to claim to be selling so we could scam people out of their money. We didn't even get started really, like I said, it was this whole thing."

"You're pretty lucky, if you succeeded at that someone might be really annoyed."

“We weren’t going to scam anyone important. Just, like, Tubbo or whoever.”

(From inside the walls: “HEY! I HEARD THAT!”)

"Tubbo's also a nemo?"

“Yeah.”

"I guess I do support you being able to secede so you can scam each other with fake drugs or whatever."

“Wooooooo! Yeah!”

"My husband will want to come too. He paints."

“He’s welcome with us. —You’ll need uniforms, can either of you sew or should I get Tommy to make them?”

"I think if you recount your uniform pile you'll find that there's one more uniform than you previously thought. --Pickman doesn't wear clothes, he's a ghoul."

“—Right, okay. That’s— yeah! Great! Awesome!

Our only rule is no weapons or armor inside the walls unless you’re attacked, we believe in the power of words over weapons. Also don’t, like, help Dream, given that he’s trying to kill us.”

"With anything or just with things related to the war?"

“…I mean, it depends? But to be quite honest I doubt he needs help with anything particularly.”

"I can abide by the rules." He takes off his pistols. "Anywhere I'm supposed to put these?"

“There’s a chest out here, but the more secure places are all inside the walls—or in Tommy’s house, I suppose—and they will get stolen if you just leave them lying around. You can bring them in as long as it’s just to put them somewhere safe.”

"If someone steals my pistols they're going to regret their choices."

"Well, stealing is pretty normal around here, so either keep your pistols safe or warn people first what you'll actually be pissed about having stolen. --Like, obviously you can take it back if someone steals anything of yours, but people'll be surprised if you hold a major grudge."

"Well, when in Rome. I'm going to go collect Pickman."

"Of course."

He heads back. Is Dream here and going to cause trouble?

Dream's around, but he's jumping around climbing with one of his friends, not causing trouble. He waves at Randolph Carter and then goes back to jumping between treetops.

"I want to help the rebels," Randolph says to Pickman, "Dream's an asshole."

"What's the catch?"

"They're all nemos."

"Can't we be tortured by the Witch-Queen of Athaka again instead?"

"I'd be happy to go back on the road."

"There's no need to go to extremes."

They approach the rebels' city again.

It's not even a city, really. It would be a stretch to call it a village. There's a half-burned-down forest, a van with an on-fire hot dog sculpture on top, two small houses, and a river.

"Nemos."

"If we're here for a while we can fix it up."

Secure locations for weapons?

In the van is what is clearly a precious object: a black metal box, engraved in purple and green. Everything else he's seen of the rebels' has seemed cobbled together, but the box is unblemished by wear or tear, and it gleams.

"It recognizes who's opening it," Wilbur explains proudly, "so anything you put in it, nobody else can take out. --You can go on and test it with me first if you want, before putting your valuables in it."

"That's fascinating. How does it work?"

"Oh, you've got him started."

"....I don't know," Wilbur admitted. "It's a family heirloom. There are a few others in nearby areas. The story is that they were smuggled out of another dimension before a god closed the door to it, and since then everyone who's gone looking for them has either given up or gone missing. Dunno how much stock to put in them, but I'm inclined to believe it."

"Hey Pickman."

"Absolutely."

"....You just joined, can you please wait until after helping us win the war before leaving over a rumor."

"Not right now! War first, then adventures in alternate dimensions."

"Works for me."

"So. What to now?"

"...Whatever you want? I can introduce you to everyone, or show you the farm, but there's not--I don't exactly run this place with an iron fist, basically everyone just does what they want."

"Let's meet people."

"I'm not meeting people until they're delicious, delicious corpses."

After some thought, Pickman decides the only thing worthy of sketching here is the box. 

"I'll introduce Randolph Carter to everyone, then, and you can stay here. You already met Tommy, so that'll just be Tubbo, Fundy, and Eret."

"Interesting names."

"They chose them themselves. Except for Tommy."

"Yeah, I kind of thought no parent was so cruel as to burden their child with the name 'Tubbo.'"

"I think it's a nickname but who knows what it's a nickname for. He said it was short for Tuberculosis once but I'm pretty sure that was a joke."

Randolph looks around for someone who doesn't seem too busy.

It’s not that big an area! Outside the van, there’s:

- Tommy, who he recognizes;

- a boy the same apparent age as Tommy, who’s helping tend a vegetable garden with him;

- a fox who has been put in a matching uniform and is watching them;

- someone with large dark sunglasses who appears to be an adult, who is currently laying bricks for the walls. 

"Hello, fox-person! I'm Randolph."

“Hi Randolph, I’m Fundy. You’re new here, did Wilbur let you in?”

"Apparently the 'no Americans' rule has some give in it."

“Wait wait wait, you’re American? I’m surprised Tommy let you in.”

"Well, I've been living in the Dreamlands for decades."

“I guess that makes sense. I mean, it’s not like anyone knows where Phil’s from originally.”

"If he's old enough then it's by definition not America. --Unless he was kidnapped by the Yith I guess."

“I don’t thiiiink he was? He doesn’t have the same accent as Dream but, y’know, accents change too, so.”

Randolph, whose accent* sounds nothing like Dream's either, nods. "Metaphysically I'm still from Providence though. Everything I dream is just Providence reimagined."

*https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cTiwhw8XMxY

“Neat. How much can you dream?”

"Built a city once and the elder gods moved into it."

No, he's not still bitter, why do you ask?

“Whoa. I mean— whoa. That’s, like, holy shit, you might be able to beat Technoblade.” (He says the name much like you might say the word “God”.) “Or like, you’d definitely be a better builder, if the elder gods moved into it, I guess I didn’t ask how you are in a fight—wow. Okay.”

He looks at the ground, finds a branch, and ten seconds later Fundy is on the ground with the branch at his throat. 

"I'm not bad."

"...Well, thank you for not killing me."

Wilbur calls from a distance: "No weapons in L'Manberg!"

"It's sticks, Wilbur. You can't deprive a man of his sticks."

Deep sigh. "Fine, just don't hurt Fundy."

"How am I going to kill Fundy with a stick."

"I don't know! I'm like three weeks old and being knocked onto my back was sort of generally frightening!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know you were three weeks old, that was a dick move."

He extends a hand out to help Fundy up.

Fundy lets Randolph Carter help him up. "It's alright, I'm sort of... complicatedly three weeks old? There was time stuff. Mostly I just hang out with people who were, like, here when I was born, so it doesn't come up."

"Oh, yeah, time stuff, I hate that. That's why I don't know how old I am really."

"You belong in a nursing home!" Pickman yells from across L'Manberg.

"You belong in a cemetery!"

"There's delicious food there."

“Do I want to ask what he eats.”

"Rotten dead bodies. Obviously."