In Our Darkest Desires
Such are stories, ruled by memories. Hauntings raised again and again. Nightmares sung on a daily basis. A soul gouged in half. A daily rest is all she needs. For better or worse, it's what we all need. A rest for the mind is the only cure. To stop and reflect on the past brings a brighter future. Turning it all down opens a realm to many possibilities. The fate of one's soul is told before it even begins. The world of fantasy has little limits. The sky isn't the limit but what derives from the human mind.
Such are lilies; a few dots that represent hope. She held it in her hand. Slowly it curled and twisted as she stared as if tortured. She was so used to this. In the back of her mind she pondered everything. Simple objects turn on many gears in our brain. What she is now could no longer be changed. The evil man took pleasure in what he did. And just like him she is staring at a tortured flower. But she didn't cause it: he did. She looked up; looked across the landscape, so barren, boring, and dead. Will it ever be the same again? She pondered on all the possibilities. And she just failed to kill him, yet he is gone and in hiding. She could have had him but her desire for affliction got in the way. Furious, the flower turned black then faded into the wind.
She turned around and looked at her army of rangers standing at attention: a few hundred. Strange, even pale skinned and ghastly looking they were still beautiful, but was she also? Stupid thought, she through it out quickly. "We stand here as vindicators, as people taking back our home. It was destroyed but our will was not." Her voice rose. "Every mindless thing burned to ashes is one less for The Scourge, and we will not stop until the last one is destroyed by my hand." Her voice became a screech. "Go! cleanse this land in MY NAME!" The rangers ran past her, and she watched.
Once the army was gone a man came up to her on her left. "Decent speech," said Nathanos Blightcaller. She didn't look at him, "it wasn't supposed to be." "I'm sure the rangers still have their skills even as undead." Finally, she turned her head left, "we are stronger now than before," he cut her short, "not strong enough, we can't make too many enemies too quickly." She looked back in front of her. She sighed. "This place was once beautiful, now it is dead." He put his hand on her shoulder, "we will make it wonderful again." Her hatred and pride boiled inside of her; "I will, this is my war."
"Whoever's war this is, it is good to cover the flank; Hillsbrad should be clean again. By the way, when was the last time you sat down?" He sold boldly. She now faced him and was a little confused by the question. "What do you mean?" He looked intently at her. "When was the last time you rested?" She stared, not at him but past him. "I don't know," she said. "Perhaps you should," with that statement he walked off towards Tarren Mill. She looked around; The Windrunner still had that cautious behavior that she learned long ago as a High Elf ranger, but the anxiety has gotten much worse, for she is always alert watching everything. A few moments passed and she walked towards the mill. Poor little village it has seen much better days.
Most of Tarren Mill was simply abandoned; which made it easy for The Lady and her followers to stay for a little. All the buildings were left standing, but they were vacant, so naturally the earth began to reclaim the houses and barns; as for the mill it was burned. She went towards a house, opened the front door but it tilted and fell backward. She didn't really care and just left it. Went upstairs to the bedroom and sat on the bed.
She wasn't physically tired; she hasn't been exhausted since the change to undead. Rarely did she get fatigued in combat anymore, for it only took a few seconds to fully recuperate. As for her mind, that is an entirely different story, she closed her red eyes with her thin teal eyelid, tried to organize her thoughts, and suddenly fell backward fast asleep.
What are dreams? Are they a separate reality or a prediction of the future? Or are dreams just a complete waste of time and energy. Do the dead dream? Do the undead dream? If there are no brains then there are no dreams? But if there is reason, then there are dreams. We always think, even in our sleep. Our mind never turns off; it is the torture our Lord has given us, and we must deal with it. Such a torture in the night, when all we want is sleep; then a dream awakes us, or puts us in an even deeper slumber. Such are dreams, founded on memories, or replaced with memories. Such are dreams, of going back in time, to the place where all was peaceful; to the early childhood, when reason was little, or when work weighed only a little. Such are the days of the past and the good and the bad ones will always haunt us. The bad torment us and the good make us want to go back, so which is the different torment?
When do dreams happen? Do they happen when sleep is about to end? Or right when it begins? Or right in that sweet middle spot. Or are dreams predestined to interrupt our sleep. The horror of the night tears our soul in half. The sweat and shaking I, myself, know all too well. The more mad a person is the worse the dreams: until madness finally creeps in. Then the fear and pacing ensues until the bed represents our inner deepest and darkest desires. The grasp of hands pull us into the sheets, until blood pours down the precious white cloth, and drops on the floor full of worms ready to suck.
I cannot describe the torment I go through every night, and I wasn't even in a war, nor do I have any post-traumatic-stress-syndrome. My dreams are literally a creation of my own reality, of some other realm where I have no control. It seems as if the only solution is to have no brain at all. Better to have no brain then to be unable to control it.
The anxiety, the tension, the stress, the torment, the folly, the exhaustion, oh my, all these trinkets lead to even worse dreams. This stupid character, in this book I didn't even come up with, I relate to all too well. And that is why I picked her; to write a strange messed up story we all can relate too. We as a people are not very different. Our deepest and darkest desires are all rounded up and tossed into our stupid minds then spit out in the form of dreams. Dreams are everything. And such is the torment I go through, so will this woman go through. I will do my best to try and explain my stupid similarities with this woman that doesn't truly exist.
So fucking stupid, how attached I get to characters that aren't even real. Maybe that's the point, they aren't real, and that is why we love them. If they were real, would it then be enjoyable? There is no joy in living: only imagining. Yes, you have come here, and yes you are reading this story about a lady who likes to kill everything then reanimate them, then torment them just for pleasure. Surely you are like this beast more than you know. I know, I am trying to persuade you: reader. If you didn't like her then you wouldn't be reading a story about her.
But I am sick of stories, stories that make no fucking sense, and have no depth, no meaning, just a useless waste of paper. Trees are more precious than random scribblings. I say that but here I am, babbling on and on, talking about useless pointless shit. And if you're still reading, then I have you hooked. In the end, we all like a good story.