The room is a forest of swords. Hundreds of them, stuck into every surface like pins in a cushion. The mattresses and pillows are stabbed through as if a rain of swords fell from above, though of course they did not fall. They've embedded themselves there without human hands or gravity to guide them. The bedframes and canopy poles are splintered where broadswords and rapiers have become wedged in the wood. The stone walls and the decor are lost behind a frost of hilts climbing all the way to the ceiling. The floor is overgrown with sharp blades, some of them stabbed into it and some growing out of it.

The dreamer is spared, though he can't lift his head to see if any other sleepers are present or whether his roommates are in the same ruined state as the furniture. Like some kind of carnival trick, Ronan is sprawled out on the bed while sword blades stick out from everything that isn't a part of his body.

He's paralyzed. He always is, when he brings something back with him. In this case, he's brought almost a thousand somethings back with him, and all he can do is contemplate the disaster while he waits to return to his body. No one is screaming and he can't tell whether that's because they're still asleep or they're already dead or they had the good fortune of partying too late to end up at ground zero.