Tuesday, May 22, 2012


The nightmares and dreamscapes were getting progressively worse; furthermore the loss of sleep and her altered cycle was affecting her sensibilities. It was like the dreams were building up momentum, like a wind before a storm. She had begun to keep a journal because it was becoming ever more demanding to discern what was real and what was nightmare. When she was awake or dreaming. Some days she dared not step from her bed for fear of the Slithering Tracker who laird under her lavish bedding or perhaps refrain from wearing yellow that day because that is what the attracted insect swarms. Whatever the case she rarely exited her parlor, the fear was too great.

The nude woman looked up from her bed at her surroundings and noted that the Running Stallions painting over the head of the bed now featured a disgusting troll mage dressed as King Azoun IV. It snarled and taunted her, making abhorrent gestures with his fist and his mock crown.

The troll-king jumped from the painting, landing with a disgusting lustful grunt. He threw off is regal trappings exposing his royal genitalia; sniveling and growling: “IT’S GOOD TO BE THE KING.” Over and over.

The woman grasped for her weapon Avildar, her only defense, but its familiar grip could not be found—the sword was gone. She could feel the troll's cold hands pinning her down, he was huge and strong. The woman pressed her eyes shut, screaming to be freed of the nightmare. "NO!"

And when she opened her eyes again, the king troll mage was gone, her scream still echoed in the room. Sitting up she saw the Running Stallions had returned, horses briskly galloping in front of  great snow-capped mountains. She took up her sword, the cold pommel reminded her of the trolls cold touch and composed herself; it seemed the nightmare was over but, she believed, that if she should die in her dreams—she could never be aroused from that slumber.

The dreamcatcher reached for her journal and saw that an astral red gem-stone sat upon its covers. The irregular gem pulsed with its own inner light, like the tempo in a fey song or an ominous and feral beating heart; but the gem was not there before she was sure—was that in a dream too or was this still a dream?

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