Pitch Black ♦ The Bogeyman (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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poly_chromatic2014-01-02 01:24 pm
rideofthefearlings) wrote in poly_chromatic2014-01-02 01:24 pm
Entry tags:
TWO. » VIDEO - DREAM
The memory begins with you looking over a view of the cosmos but rather than feel awe that should accompany such a sight, all you feel is hunger. You stand on the bow of a massive ship, black masts and taut sails raised behind you to catch solar winds. Shadows and shades surround you, but they slink from your path as you stride, sharp-booted and cloak billowed, eager to find your next target. You feel alive and electrified with the fear of hundreds of Golden Age children who will never again know the peace of an uninterrupted night's sleep, but you want more.
"Starboard!" comes the call of the Nightmare Men on the watch. "A Golden warship!"
Anticipation flares sharp and thirsty through your veins. "Come about!" you order and the Galleon swings wide on her keel. Near the railings some of the newest of your prizes, a teen boy and girl, rend uselessly at their hair and face, black eyes with no iris any longer wide with horror at what they know is coming. You barely spare them a glance as you pass; they're being slowly consumed by Fearlings inside and out, the evidence visible on their skin where ink-like blackness is taking over their bodies. You could have made it quick but they took out one of your rank and you plan to teach them and everyone a lesson for it.
The Nightmare Galleon comes upon the warship in less time than it takes them to assume their battle stations (you know how long it should take them, you drilled over and over until they were perfect) and you're the first one to cross with your formidable war scythe in hand. There's confusion and panic on the warship's deck and the unlucky few to be directly in your path are quickly sliced down, only to be pounced upon by the Fearlings and Nightmare Men with their black blades cutting, cutting.
Some of them recognize you, shrieking, "General, General no, please no!" but the Fearlings are quick to drown out their cries and all you feel is their fear rolling over you like an ambrosial wave. It slakes, just slightly, the driving urgency that consumes every part of your being... but you know it is temporary. They are adults aboard this ship (never mind that some of them look as young or younger than when you started) and their terrors are not pure.
But it's an adequate distraction, for now.
Soon there are bodies piled like firewood across all the decks, their armor slick and stained (it doesn't look so different now from the corroded, corrupted set you still wear, blackened like your heart) and you give the order to scuttle everything. Back on the Galleon you watch the warship explode in a corona, count another nail in the coffin of the Great Golden Age and turn once again towards the horizon.
"Set course," you command, the momentary feeling of satiation fleeting and you close your eyes, already reaching out to sense the nearest planet and the fears of the children living there. "We are still hunting."
The Fearlings yowl in excitement, the Nightmare Men roar their approval and you, master of both and the dreaded Nightmare King, continue your reign.
"Starboard!" comes the call of the Nightmare Men on the watch. "A Golden warship!"
Anticipation flares sharp and thirsty through your veins. "Come about!" you order and the Galleon swings wide on her keel. Near the railings some of the newest of your prizes, a teen boy and girl, rend uselessly at their hair and face, black eyes with no iris any longer wide with horror at what they know is coming. You barely spare them a glance as you pass; they're being slowly consumed by Fearlings inside and out, the evidence visible on their skin where ink-like blackness is taking over their bodies. You could have made it quick but they took out one of your rank and you plan to teach them and everyone a lesson for it.
The Nightmare Galleon comes upon the warship in less time than it takes them to assume their battle stations (you know how long it should take them, you drilled over and over until they were perfect) and you're the first one to cross with your formidable war scythe in hand. There's confusion and panic on the warship's deck and the unlucky few to be directly in your path are quickly sliced down, only to be pounced upon by the Fearlings and Nightmare Men with their black blades cutting, cutting.
Some of them recognize you, shrieking, "General, General no, please no!" but the Fearlings are quick to drown out their cries and all you feel is their fear rolling over you like an ambrosial wave. It slakes, just slightly, the driving urgency that consumes every part of your being... but you know it is temporary. They are adults aboard this ship (never mind that some of them look as young or younger than when you started) and their terrors are not pure.
But it's an adequate distraction, for now.
Soon there are bodies piled like firewood across all the decks, their armor slick and stained (it doesn't look so different now from the corroded, corrupted set you still wear, blackened like your heart) and you give the order to scuttle everything. Back on the Galleon you watch the warship explode in a corona, count another nail in the coffin of the Great Golden Age and turn once again towards the horizon.
"Set course," you command, the momentary feeling of satiation fleeting and you close your eyes, already reaching out to sense the nearest planet and the fears of the children living there. "We are still hunting."
The Fearlings yowl in excitement, the Nightmare Men roar their approval and you, master of both and the dreaded Nightmare King, continue your reign.