Marakata's Dream

You are alone, in a beautiful countryside. You are walking through the swaying flowers and the curious wildlife, no care to your direction. Life surrounds you. A sunny day—warmth caressing your face—spreads as far as you can see. Spring is upon you, and you feel alive with each breath and step.

You notice beneath your feet a road, not a well-worn path, but an ancient, forgotten trail, hidden beneath the low grass. Your feet fall naturally on this antiquated route. You are sure no one has walked this trail for centuries, perhaps millennia, but you are drawn to discover its mysteries, none the less.

Flowery meadows change to cultivated land. Copses of elm and birch turn to outlying cottages and pastures. Fauna and flora give way to citizens and crops. Continuing on this hidden road, you travel through populated hamlets and towns, cities and capitals, bustling with people and their daily activities. But yet, you are unobserved; your path seems to parallel their world; you are merely an observer, perhaps. Night begins to fall. The sky darkens as the sun dips behind the horizon.

Wait. No, the sun is still high in the heavens. Clouds then, moving to hide the fiery ball. No. The sky is clear, a cloudless spring day. A breeze stirs, cool and slightly damp. Damp? Ah, a slight drizzle is falling, but how? Your fingers touch your face, feeling the cool moisture. Wait, the drizzle is warm. You roll the tepid rainwater between your fingers.

The breeze turns slightly chilly, and the light sprinkle becomes a warm shower. You lift your face up to the sky, bathing in the sweet smell of spring rain. Strange, not sweet, but musky, no, something else but still familiar. Your gaze drops to your wet hands. Such a beautiful coppery color, like you remember when spinning clay as a girl. No, your hands are a deeper color, red?

Confusion then panic wells inside you; your hands are covered with blood! An injury, yes that’s it! You must be injured, but the smell, the coppery taint to the air, it’s everywhere. Your eyes fall to the ground in front. Red! Your eyes look off down the path, red!

Blood falls from the sky, puddles and gullies forming. A crimson flood begins washing over the land, engulfing everything in its path. Dripping in reddish gore, you helplessly watch as all life struggles to stay afloat, finally succumbing to their inevitable fate. As the last victim drops below the crimson surface, the abominable downpour stops.

Stricken with fear, you cannot move, staring at the now still surface of watery death. Something brushes your leg, from beneath. You scream, but no sound! Suddenly, an unearthly grip grasps your thigh, pulling you down! You fight to maintain your feet, but you slip to one knee, sanguine fluid splashing against your face, lips, and eyes. Your eyes sting, but you cannot close them, for a grisly visage rises above the blood to meet your gaze.

Surrounding you, emerging from the bloody wasteland are the moaning and screaming zombies and phantoms of the drowned. Their terrible agony pierces deep into your soul! Familiar shapes, you see your family and friends among those rising from the sickening stench of decaying blood. Feeling drawn, you rise back to your feet and begin wading through the lakes of blood, heading toward a distant rise. A gigantic dark figure stands atop the rise, looming above the landscape. The figure spreads its cloaked arms to embrace what seems to be its new followers, enveloping everything as far as the eye can see.

A shrill scream awakens you from your torment, only to find it was your own dream! Unable to shake the burning visions from your mind, you struggle with your sanity, knowing continued dreams of this sort would only unhinge your mind.

Marakata's Dream

Horror Unheeded halfogre