The dreams began with their heads on spikes, a cacophony of silent wailing, eyes drifting toward the land of the absent gods above. Their skulls drenched in what was once their kinsmen, spiked next to them in similar fashion. I found myself wandering through the litany of violence these visages represented. I could not tell if I was clothed in rags or in skin, the heft of the apparel weighted me down enough for it to be either. That could have also been the weight of the images I witnessed, I was numb to the surroundings as one would become in the cold.
Warmth in abundance was ironically present, overbearing in its smothering. The fog and humid air could just as easily have been fed by the blood as the water in which this bog presented himself. A bog that had forest-like elements, but with a complete absence of green, not counting the feeling of sickness to my stomach that was ever increasing the more I traveled.
And thus I came upon an open field, foggy eyes and foggy skies clouded my vision to the more extremes of depravity upon which this field was built. But for a moment, deep within the recesses of the mind's eye and cast through the clouds in flashes of unholy lightning was The Great One of which many have spoken, but none alive. Truly, for a moment, I wondered if The Great One was either capable of such horrendousness surrounding me, or if we were merely playthings, ants led upon a path of promised lands and enlightenment yet brought to the brink of our sanity.
Truly, not many will know. For the gaze of The Great One turned toward me.
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