So it begins! The epic tale of the Rift, and how it changed the wizarding world for eons to come! Any sort of review is kickin', and much appreciated. Feel free to email me for suggestions and such, or to call me stupid, it'll be cool. I suggest being able to read quite well, or to be able to comprehend dream writing. Otherwise, you'll be very confused while reading my work, bustin' out the dictionary quite often.
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The Dreaming
Black, blue, everything new, treated as ash and tinder. He always wondered why that when he thought, those thoughts rhymed whenever they could, would, or should. It's not as if it really mattered, but it was a curious little occurrence that he couldn't definitely explain, this pattern of thought. But that sequence of thought he never truly noticed until he was quite unaware of his surroundings. Irony pursues the most apathetic of victims... Why else would irony be irony? Irony is the King of Literary Elements, undesirable at time, but otherwise entertaining, he knew. Irony had only just found him, nothing more, and nothing less.
Shattered stones, breaking bones, tegulated mail and jubilant, joyous, jumping jacks. How he brought them to life, how he brought them to their graves. Why should he have to understand why this happens? It doesn't, that's the pointer.
Flashing, mad and with abandon. None of these images made sense to him, for the most part. Practically, those images he saw meant nothing in his immediate or long running future, only the past. Oh how he found many a source of mirth and gaiety in the land of the living, but at night...
Oh at night. Those memories, those experiences, oh how they came back to haunt his slumbering hours! Unrelenting, recurring, repugnant, reciprocating! He couldn't find enough adjectives to fully serve his meal of thoughts! Evil, brutish, vindictive, vociferous, vexatious, bratish, blaringly, bastard thoughts! Metaphoric spittle flies from his mouth whenever he tries to explain all these things to others, or even to himself.
Why was he haunted so! Haunted so by the memories of the past, the memories of his friends, fellows, family, familiar, and the flock by the fecundity of those folk! If only he hadn't had those halls of heaven-borne brethren... Without them, he would have sub sequentially been without these brazen visages of the destruction he knew well of.
Birds fly quickly away, passing before his very eyes without so much of a second thought. What of this? They say he should do his deed well and without worry for their own plights.
Do it well.
Do what you're meant to do.
Time to fulfill your destiny!
We'll be okay.
What's the worry, my friend? They shan't get us, not with my steed and steel beside!
Very uplifting. He'd done it, but for the price he was expecting. But then again, it wasn't as if he didn't try to stop the inevitable. He guessed that's what made it so hard in the end. He'd practically made the handbook of his enemies' tactics and power, and for whom? That's right.
He had noticed that they had tried to do what he had suggested back in the day, flares alight, feet quickly moving, the enhanced plate and mail, ring and chain, all of his plans working in unison. This worked only for a while, for shame. Then again, it was his fault. He had, of course, reinitialized the since-forgotten use of the enhanced steels and stones... Maybe it gave his cohorts as false sense of security? He had seen those sports players knocking into each other without a care in the world, blissfully unaware of how they might work without those five inch plastic and nylon, cotton covered pads. Their hubris did them in, as it did the voluptuous heroes of times past?
Or perhaps... Perhaps it was those men and woman, adept at unfamiliar craft, who brought their strange ways and unusual proceedings, patronage, and principle. Perhaps it was the Riftwalkers who were really to blame.
He awakes in a cold sweat.