Post by chaser on Jul 9, 2008 16:56:12 GMT 1
Okay, this is a dream that I first had about a year ago, though for the past few weeks it has been on my mind constantly. Weird, but here goes;
There is a demon (me), sitting cross-legged in the center of a wasted battleground. There are no bodies, but the ashes, stains and discarded weaponry are clear signs of long and drawn out conflict. The demon just sits, waiting. Its skin is thick and waxy from death, it sees with no eyes and there are thin plumes of black smoke that constantly stream from their sockets, as well as its nostrils and corners of the mouth. A Knight rides onto the wasteland (a man I know and love as a brother in the waking world) not just in shining armor, but shining from his soul. He approaches the creature and dismounts, then, drawing his sword and striding straight toward it thrusts the blade through its heart with such force that it travels through. It squeals and falls back, apparently dead. The Knight turns, leaving his tainted weapon, but as he is about to mount up the demon rises to its feet and removes the sword, hefting it as he walks calmly toward him. Without hesitation the Knight draws a spare sword from his saddlebag and beheads the creature in one clean stroke. Again the demon falls, though a head begins to slowly grow back onto the body, and another body grows from the severed head, until there are now two demons. The new enemy, an exact replica of the first, picks up one of the weapons and they both walk toward the Knight. Trying to mask his fear with ferocity, the Knight slashes wildly at both of them. The Demons make no move to parry and they are cut deeply, bleeding profusely. Seeming to feel no pain they continue their march and where their blood falls, more of them grow, pick up weapons and move to attack. The Knight is slowly being surrounded; trying to fight an enemy where each wound inflicted and limb severed is strengthening instead of weakening his foe. His light burns brightly, he is skilled and will not consider fleeing, even if he were able to, though the enemy keeps multiplying and he knows he can’t go on forever. Eventually he is swarmed, lost under a writhing mass of demons. On a hill in the distances is a weeping maiden. She warned him not come to the wasteland, but he ignored her.
There is a demon (me), sitting cross-legged in the center of a wasted battleground. There are no bodies, but the ashes, stains and discarded weaponry are clear signs of long and drawn out conflict. The demon just sits, waiting. Its skin is thick and waxy from death, it sees with no eyes and there are thin plumes of black smoke that constantly stream from their sockets, as well as its nostrils and corners of the mouth. A Knight rides onto the wasteland (a man I know and love as a brother in the waking world) not just in shining armor, but shining from his soul. He approaches the creature and dismounts, then, drawing his sword and striding straight toward it thrusts the blade through its heart with such force that it travels through. It squeals and falls back, apparently dead. The Knight turns, leaving his tainted weapon, but as he is about to mount up the demon rises to its feet and removes the sword, hefting it as he walks calmly toward him. Without hesitation the Knight draws a spare sword from his saddlebag and beheads the creature in one clean stroke. Again the demon falls, though a head begins to slowly grow back onto the body, and another body grows from the severed head, until there are now two demons. The new enemy, an exact replica of the first, picks up one of the weapons and they both walk toward the Knight. Trying to mask his fear with ferocity, the Knight slashes wildly at both of them. The Demons make no move to parry and they are cut deeply, bleeding profusely. Seeming to feel no pain they continue their march and where their blood falls, more of them grow, pick up weapons and move to attack. The Knight is slowly being surrounded; trying to fight an enemy where each wound inflicted and limb severed is strengthening instead of weakening his foe. His light burns brightly, he is skilled and will not consider fleeing, even if he were able to, though the enemy keeps multiplying and he knows he can’t go on forever. Eventually he is swarmed, lost under a writhing mass of demons. On a hill in the distances is a weeping maiden. She warned him not come to the wasteland, but he ignored her.