Friday, January 7, 2011


Hello, readers.  Firstly, I would like to apologize for my extended absence...things got busy and I neglected my Dream Journal.  However, I have two dreams from that period that I have yet to write down and type up.  So there are those to look forward to, I guess.  Anyhow, here's the latest from my head.

I was a Spartan warrior, a member of the fiercest army recorded in history, trained to kill and not question.  Everyday, I was fighting for my life.
I had earned my sword and my place in the Spartan ranks through many battles, facing fearsome men and even more fearsome creatures, the beasts of legend and myth.  A man of twenty-four years, I was a battle-scarred, fearless, un-bending agent of death.
Presently, Sparta was at peace, or as at peace as it come close to being.  Many of the warriors were then in the city, spending time with their respective family, friends, or (as it may be) their favorite tankard of hard wine.  I was alone, as I always had been...I spent my days meditating on what I had done and what I had left to do.  I was, as always, an untouchable figure among the commoners.
It was during those few days of return to my home that I felt a black shadow cross my heart and knew my time here was ill-spent: my peace would be short-lived.
But I could do nothing for it, for where was my proof?  I had only a feeling, and those are usually not the acceptable catalyst for launching  a war.  Not to mention, I didn't even know against whom we might be warring.  Things just didn't feel right...

As much as I had wished against it, my premonitions of doom became truth.  Late one balmy summer evening, Sparta was besieged by hordes of monsters.  By some divine power, they sunk the city fifty feet into the earth and proceeded to climb down into the ditch, probably hoping to massacre us in our disorder and confusion.
The serfs, women and children were the first to go, of course.  And I could not help them; the city was too large, too overrun.  I had to stay with the small platoon of Spartans I had gathered about myself, lest we all succumb to the creeping, misty fingers of death that wreathed the city, holding us in it's clutch.
The first wave to reach us was made up of the normal human soldiers, just like us: trained from a young age in combat and tactics, trained to relish gore, worship the sword, fight, always fight.  And we slew them.  Without any qualms, without any casualties.
The second wave to come were the wolves, creeping through the mist on padded paws, eyes glowing malevolently, circling, always circling.  And those too, we dispatched.
Third were the minotaurs, bellowing and rampaging, throwing their brute strength and weight around.  We sent them to the abyss without so much as a backward glance.
But then...then they came.  The mist descended ever thicker upon our group, bringing with it a chill and a scent so sickening, most of the men vomited before they could think twice about it.  The worst was the rattling, though.  It was the scraping and the creaking and the rattling of long-dead bones risen from their grave, shambling towards us from all directions, closing us in, intending for us to soon join their numbers.
We fought with every inch of our swords and with every whit's worth of intelligence, but still many men took the hand of sweet death and walked into oblivion that day.  The skeletons were surprisingly fast.  They could evade the swiftest of blows and be within range to throttle you (or worse) quicker than you could blink an eye.  They were tough, too.  Jab them through the back of the skull with a blade and they'd do no more than turn and grin vilely at you, eye sockets empty and lightless...then they'd slowly pull the sword from their head and jab you through your own gut with it.
Dawn never came while fighting these ghasts.  The city was shrouded in twilight and death's mist, hopeless and silent except for the noise of battle from our sector.  The remainder of Sparta slept for all eternity.
There was one point during the battle where I thought I had lost my life.  I was on the ground, having been knocked over, and my sword was embedded in a skeleton not yet subdued.  The horror stood up, removed my sword from itself and thew it at me.  Things progressed in slow time, yet I was helpless to move; I could only watch as my blade spun on a course bound straight for the impalement of my own brain.  Suddenly, there was a whooshing sound, and time stopped completely.  Scintillating scarlet droplets of blood shimmered in the air, though there were none there before.  A number of them coalesced into six larger droplets, which spun round and round in front of my nose, forming Death's insignia.  I looked up, and there She was, blue light glimmering off of Her alabaster skin and red specks dancing in Her eyes.  She smiled warmly at me, plucked the sword from the air, and planted it in the earth between my feet. 
"Now is not your time," She said, and walked away.  All the skeletons She passed, She flicked on the skull.  Pure, deep notes emitted tranquilly from each one.  Then She faded into the mist and time resumed it's crawl.
The blood in the air had disappeared, but the sword was at my feet; I jumped up and wrenched it out of the earth.  Around me, the skeletons the Lady had touched fell over and disintegrated into ash.
I took to the battle again, and my sword burned with a cool, blue energy.  The skeletons I downed seemed to need but one blow to convince them to surrender their bones to the earth once more.
Finally, only two of the fiends remained.  They were dispatched by others with crushing blows to the head.

I looked around.  Only thirteen of us Spartans remained.  The rest of the city had been claimed by the Dark Lady...

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