It's nighttime, based on the stars and moons out, but the sun is perpetually stuck just at the edge of the horizon to the east. Adrasteia stands in the griffons' roost, the small elf leaning against the curvature of the wide windows where the beasts fly in and out, but while there are the sounds and smells of the griffons, none of them appear to be actually present.

Beyond her, Kirkwall shifts between a city glittering in the last vestiges of the night and one that is attempting to rebuild from what is apparently a firebombing via dragon. Adrasteia takes a breath, wrapping her arms tightly around herself.

This dream is poised between unsettling and nightmarish in tone. With the rising of the sun there will either be clarity, or Blight; there are no other options.