A breath of life surfaces, suddenly, life itself plays out its role. A warrior kisses his wife their last kiss, gives his child their last hug, and makes an unfulfillable promise. This, is where it begins. As a death await one man, a war takes to the skies.
One of the luckier times about dying first in battle is the fact that it is over quickly. One spear through the heart, one magical blast seering through the body…one moment is all it takes to relive a life well spent. Becoming one with nature gives the brethren a boost. Filling them with hope, with a purpose.
Sadly, despite all efforts, there are no survivors, However, it all starts with one. Then the next. Odd how death has no enemy, how it brings a restful peace. Yet, it can muster a vendetta. All in all, the breath of the first deaths channel through years, inspiring the next generation to do different, or end up the same.
Holding back the string to a bow, the archer stands tall next to his assigned lined. Not all are men, some are woman, others... are neither. For the first time in history do orcs, goblins, dragons, spellcasters, warriors, orcs, and mythical creatures of all kinds, have come together due to a common enemy.
What the war was about? No one will know. However, what the future withholds is every death, every breath taken, every screech, all of it.... Shall be played individually. As if it were a song set on repeat. One breath in, the other, gone.
This condition later became knowns as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Although, there was only one issue that came to this specific set of nightmares. Most, if not all, did not experience their traumas first hand. The victims held by these nightmares were mythical creatures and humans of all age, shape, size, and form.
With the bow tense between the archer’s fingers, the signal echoed across the land and all together, as if one body, and one mind, the line of archer’s fired. Then, they continued to fire. Adrenaline rushes to the host’s body as the archer continues to fly through their arrows. Around them, their brothers and sisters fall. Screams of war ripple through the air. Roars of mythical creatures overlap one another, men and women scream as they feel their life’s being sucked away by spellcaster’s summons.
Cold sweat trickles down the host’s face. The warmth of the room meaning nothing to their bodies experience this war. If anything, some mumble, or groan. Others move as they feel their minds focus in on the experience. Suddenly, the first choking breath enters the mind of the host. The archer has been pierced by another arrow, then another. The chest begins to beat, wanting to release air but cannot.
In this way, some host die in their first as well as last encounter with the nightmare. Others, awaken in shock and a cold sweat, running to their loved ones to tell the tale. Some, cannot express the experience with words. In reaction, victims draw terrifyingly accurate scenes of the war. Others spread tales of these nightmares to take the pressure off their chest. A few, hide it, and pretend that the nightmares do not occur.
Had they known, ignoring the nightmare would only make it ten times worse on their end then they’d open up and share the tale with others. This allowed the nightmare to spread, through word of mouth, then, eventually, through genetics. What time period the war was actually fought seems to be a mystery. What doesn’t remain a mystery is the nightmare’s existence.
Those who die due to stress on their unconscious bodies are considered lucky. Each night that a victim can withstand the fight on their vessel proves that the victim is one step closer to being able to end the nightmares for good. So far, no one has lived since the three hundredth encounter. Meaning, either they were lucky and died before then… Or, each passing day they pushed through, knowing that it was a nightmare, that at moment… They would wake up.
Only one has made it to the three hundredth encounter. Surprisingly, and horrifyingly, this victim is a child. A fifteen year old mythic who lives under the surveillance of scientist. She would like to believe that the scientist were doing everything they could to keep her alive (and at times this is true). Deep down inside, she knew the truth, they couldn’t keep her alive with their power alone/ She had to do something to stop the nightmares for good.
Vali’s eyes open, reviewing a world she knew too well. Some of the other mythics had the same condition as she did, but none of them had lived through their fifth encounter. This, would be her three hundred and sixtieth. For almost a year now, Vali’s mind would wander into this dark place where mythical creatures or all kinds died different deaths.
The first one would be simple. It was a warrior, an honorable one, jumping in front of his brother to save him, for only a moment. In the next moment after, she would breath the life of the brother, watching his fellow war buddy breath his last breath. From behind, would spawn a witch, zapping him with lightning, frying everything up to his brain, where he would slowly feel the burn throughout his body, and see only one detail of the witch, her ring.
After his last breath, she would become the witch, would send a cold chill down her spine. Feeling the heartless wench sould first hand determined that pain was nothing but a cake walk. Instead, an orc’s club would slam through the witch’s side, allowing her to scream and place a curse on the club. Once the witch’s breath ceased, the orc would stumble and fall, not sure why he felt ill and could not let go of his club. As the thought occurred to him that he had been curse, the orc fell, face hitting the dry earth, the orc watched as a mother gave birth to a child, her dead body shielding the child from harm. Vali always woke up in tears if this was the scene she would be allowed to wake up to.
Tonight, she would not be waking up, instead, she would see through the child’s eyes, how death came upon it.
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