Spectator Wakes

The Spectator awoke to a blackness, then there was the voice of a thousand torments in his mind.

“Welcome, my very intriguing, unwilling, spectator. It seems you’ve spun the Wheel in the wrong direction and wound up between a spoke and a hard place – or, rather, my realm.

Welcome to the land of a succulent putrid compost of the souls of damned dreams. To the land of unfortunate happenstance confounding your pitiful goals to the amenities of your war.

Welcome to Quagmire, you whose reach is veiled in black metal.

Welcome to Quagmire, you who have supported those fanciful and melodic swordsmen.

Welcome to Quagmire, you who pursues infidels. You, who pursues me.

What an unfortunate quagmire you’ve found yourself in. Your dreams have no chance to escape – their feet sunken, trapped, submerged under a dervish quagmire. My Quagmire.

Welcome to your nightmares, I’m your wonderful host – the Daedroth summoned only by the allure of sleeping innocence, the Grifter and Gifter of the Dream, the Weaver of the Panoply of Cries and Screams, the Prince of Nightmares, Dreams, and Omens.

You may call me Vaermina, and I’ve finally got a chance to enjoy your beautiful dreams of warm sands, war, and Swordsingers.

I’ve got you, you tarnished Black Night.

I’ve got you, Ebonarm.”

And the Spectator dreamed, and he dreamed terrible things. War.