They are directed toward the Library of Arah. It turns out to be a book - a very large book as tall as a man and hopefully far wider - open on display in an elegant little building with no real roof or walls, only windows on every side streaming the golden light down onto the pages of the Book.
It's a small line to get to the thing itself. The guard by the velvet rope applies the move-along, one party at a time please, no touching please, see anything? Oh, really. Well, move along, one party at a time please.
Most don't see a thing, though it doesn't matter. Though the pages remain blank, it's a sight to behold all on its own, and the Book is very particular as to just who can read it, anyhow. Or at very least, what sort of who, and even in Arah that sort of who is few and far between.
Can these? Amadi can, of course, but this does not mean she will, for the willful forget a great many things. Greibel, too, probably could, and Radek... perhaps. Rhu? Probably not. Wrong sort of death, the ends. Dreaming, the Book has no dead ends; its entire purpose was to persist and remember, and remember, and remember, after all else has forgot, after all has already been lost. Those with the cards who met at Midnight, they forgot the Book, but the Book did not forget them. Or perhaps they remembered the Book, as the Book remembered them, and that was the reason it all worked. It's hard to say.
As for the Gravedigger, who stands so solidly amidst the madness, whose mind is like a brick waiting to wait, what would he see? Dreams, they love a brick. Memories too. Bricks are... well, bricks, after all.
It's hard to say in practice. Bricks, after all, only see as much as they see, same as everything else.
But nevermind practice. This isn't practice. This is a treatise by the narrator, an examination of could-have-beens, an aside from the DM. We can talk about anything. Let's talk about anything.
Take Radek. A scientific mind if ever we've seen one, more than a little mad, but focused. It's the sort of focus that destroys worlds, but even more so that holds them together. He, of all people, would know to look at the edges of things, for the unknowns, for possibilities.
He would see them here. A way forward. A way around. A niggling detail that has lingered in the back of his mind brought forth into the light to be dissected at length. Here lie answers. Here lie questions. Ponder this, dear artificer, and see a little more of the world for what it is. It is yours, and yours alone.
It doesn't help, of course. It's just a little bit of something to add to all the other little somethings he would have gathered up over the years. None of it makes sense after a point, but that's fine. It just doesn't help.
On the other side of things, we have Rhu. He is... not very interesting, from the standpoint of those who write dreams. His faith makes him fixated, and his fixation limits his options. He is one who will ever only see what he wants to see, and if events transpire to force the unwanted upon him, then he will write it out of memory. Or we would hope he would; the alternative would probably involve some form of psychotic break.
Rhu would have to be very (un)lucky indeed to see anything in the Book, but then again, stranger things have happened. And what would he see, given the one in a million, or the thousand years of persistence, required?
Not a dead end.
He still wouldn't see anything. But this time, he would also see nothing. And nothing is everything a dead end isn't; it goes on forever, it never dies. It remembers everything, for to nothing, everything is likewise nothing. It is everything.
This is Hazz'ridan's joke upon the worlds.
The Gravedigger, meanwhile, would see something much simpler, not because he is simpler as a person (if anything he is quite the opposite), but merely because he has no need for anything so grandiose. No, he's much more likely to get something about shovels. Something practical - a history, perhaps, or some sort of comparison - something that will help him to make better, dig better, and generally be better. The best damn digger of graves you ever would see, really. As if he weren't already.
Better still, then.
Greibel is an enigma. Nobody really knows a whole lot about him - he showed up one day, and it was as though he had always been there, and there, and there. Opportunities arose, for fun or profit, or possibly for something else entirely, and now here he is.
He sees things, probably far more than most anyone realises. He ignores things, too, for he is of the sort who has learned to put the pain aside, for why should life make room for any of that? There is so much else to know and experience, so much better stuff. And yes, this is the stuff. This is totally the stuff. Right on, man. It's not my bag, but right on.
The Book would show him things, because that is what it does. Not things about the greater swaths of reality and irreality, for those he already sees, and not things about his craft or trade, for about those he is always learning, with every huff, every stride, every glance. Greibel is ever moving forward; the Book would look backward. It would show him home. What he has left behind, and what he may yet return to, if only for a little while, if only in a dream. This home is past and gone, but it is with him still, it will always be with him. It is, in a way, a part of him, but a part easily forgotten and easily ignored. A part far too easily confused for pain.
The Book would remind him that it need not be.