By The Numbers
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Langdon Pisk was dreaming again.

It was happening more and more frequently lately, and they were becoming more and more vivid. Three times a week, minimum, his oneiric mindscape was beset with a swathe of unfamiliar places, people, and things — always the same, and always unwelcome. Though arrangements and minutiae might change from night to night, the thrust of the dream was consistent and inevitable.

On this particular occasion, the dream started in the Temple — unusual (since he normally started off somewhere more familiar), but not unheard of. Teal-green walls stretched out in all directions, forming a network of intertwining corridors that twisted and turned towards some unknown destination. The ceilings were high, but the halls were narrow, illuminated only by indistinct, watery patterns dappling the air above him. The air was cool on his skin, but the stone panels hummed with disquieting warmth.

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