Deep beneath the sun dappled waves, through the filtered blue light they live. Down in the dark that no person can see they thrive on seaweed and fish. To whale song they dance, to waters rhythm they chant. To the oracles of the waves they swear their lives, to keep her at rest, to keep her in dreams.
While they dream the lives of man continue, when they wake is when the world begins to end. The shifting leaves will be no more, the sun no longer shinning on human faces turned up in praise.
She is young, but she is chosen. A fate worse than death, but honored among all others. To sleep the spells will cast her, to rest they will ease her, and into dreams she will be conscribed. Hers is a sacred task, to dream the lives of man, to sleep for the rest of her life, a creator amidst the depths of the ocean.
Sleep dear creator, sleep. Dream me a perfect life, dream the sun on the forest floor and dances in grand ballrooms. Dream of a life where humans are masters of one another, and slaves to their vices. Dream a life of poverty, or of riches. Dream me power. Dream me health. Dream me what you will, for the horror of the nothingness that comes when you wake is more than I can bear.