He walked slowly through the fog of his subconscious, watching the mysterious looking wisps swirl around him, and then suddenly there was a table before him. A quill lay at the side, feather gleaming in the milky, diffused light, and next to it sat a large book. The parchment was crisp, clean, and pure, already open to a new page.
That's right. He had to tell the story. But how? He reached to the quill, surprised by the heaviness of it in his hand, and paused, bemused. There was no ink. The distant echo of a memory flitted through his thoughts, and he grimaced suddenly. He held the quill up, eyeing its sharp tip, and pierced the tip of his finger.
Why am I doing this again? Familliar snark disturbed the blank serenity of this foreign space, and he was reminded that he wasn't a storyteller. He didn't care to relive it. But there was no choice at this point, and in a small chamber in the real world, two robed monks watched closely as the man's back arched and his body went rigid.
In the book, a scrolling script began to write itself.