This isn't all that exciting; it's more of a descriptive exercise than anything else, because…Hey! That's what prompted it. The writing prompt in Speech & Comp class was "Where are the Wild Things?" I decided they were in nightmares, which led to thinking about Raistlin, which led to…this. Again, written more for wordplay than anything else.
Oh, and I don't own Dragonlance, even though there's really no real references in here, aside from the fact that Caramon hardly ever has nightmares and Raistlin…is not so fortunate.
Someday, my brother, you will remember going there, to the place where misshapen fiends lurk hungrily in the mind's shadows, pearl teeth shining as they prepare their oral guillotine. You will face the Furies of helplessness and dread, follow them into the kaleidoscopic pattern of their cacophonous cries while your ears shriek their own lament. You will step onto solid ground, only to plummet straight through in dumbfounded horror.
You will fight the elusive foe you have always suspected of stalking you; he will pursue through the labyrinth of his twilight hall. Through blue brambles to an earth-brown sea you will flee, and suffocating, fall disheveled onto fire-packed sands still radiating the sun's heat. The exit gate glitters before you, diamond spires beckon; yet as you reach out desperately your limbs drag. The weight increases with each step, seeping up your legs till they might as well be lead. Pelvis, torso, arms; but your head falls first, taking with it the stone you once called "form."
There steps through swirling ominous rainbows your nameless enemy, only he is enigma no more. He has a face, my brother, and it is your face: all the crannies and valleys life has carved chiseled in perfect fiery-cold detail. Weak and afraid, you confront your executioner, thronged by the angry feet of his cohorts, and a vacuum of scent descends. He will rob you of your senses one by one; your tongue licks stale air, seeking even the bitterest draught but finding nothing; your ears will strain, but the tumult around you has gone horribly, whitely mute; even the leadness dissipates, giving way to a hollow ache and then nothing at all. Eyes, you are eyes only; eyes and a mind, exploding with confusion and desperate for deliverance. The Wild Things are silent now, but you hear them with your eyes, their red mouths open and slavering, tonelessly wailing, hurling condemnations to the wind without forming words. But of course you cannot feel the wind.
Then the blackest velvet sack is placed upon your invisible head: sight is yours no more. The bag is stifling, soft with a thousand pinpricks, and you almost welcome the nothing that follows, for after your odyssey oblivion is a pleasant change.
My brother, all this in your ignorance you have never known, in your calm complacency that no monsters walk the earth. But I have fought them and lost a thousand times, alone and friendless as you have never been, and I see in every eye the spark of a Wild Thing waiting for me. Waiting, grinding its teeth, and knowing that once I lay me down, the feast will begin.