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A would-be conqueror dreams of his next victory over a hated rival. But he doesn’t realize that he is not alone in his fantasy world, nor what consequences his unfettered desires are going to bring down upon him.
This is a submission to the Thursday Prompt writing group. Combining the prompts ‘prince’ and ‘muttering.’ Check out the group's user page here: https://www.furaffinity.net/user/thursdayprompt/
And the other stories generated from these prompts here: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/29634217/ and here: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/29069282/
It also ties into a group of tales based on a group id Demons I created for an Amber Diceless RPG campain. The whole of which can be accessed via the index below.
<--- PREV| FIRST | NEXT --->
Other Mens’ Dreams
By: DankeDonuts
https://www.furaffinity.net/user/dankedonuts/
When Prince Vharmond sat down upon his bed to prepare for sleep, he noticed a drop of blood upon his otherwise flawless boot. “The perfect testament to a day well spent,” he chuckled. The walls of his command tent weren’t as thick as they should be, allowing the sound of his armies to filter through. The sounds of blades being sharpened on a hundred grinding wheels, armor being reinforced by countless hammers, and the tremor of boots upon boots upon boots. More squads marching in every minute. The best possible lullaby.
He leaned over to unlace the footwear with a vicious smirk that warped his long, magenta beard. “Tomorrow, my brother, your pathetic resistance ends.” The largest army the world had seen since the Ancient Conquerors was forming just outside. “And my slow vengeance upon you will begin.” Still, the sweet drone from outside. Begging to be appreciated. Snapping his will to focus on undressing. The ruler-to-be had barely gotten his gambeson off before the Sisters Of Slumber beckoned him. He leaned slowly onto his pillow, forgetting the covers. Muttering an old promise to himself. “No… You won’t die… Not for a long time yet...”
. . .
Some time later, he was Emperor. Dressed in the finest regalia of deep brown and brilliant orange. A crown of silver leaves atop his head. Sitting with his retinue under a decorative sun cover. Chilled drink in hand, overlooking the rear grounds of the Palace Supreme. It pristinely manicured gardens laid out before a vast hedge maze. Ancient trees lines up to either side, blue sentinels. His brother, Charloq, was there as well. Buried up to his head before the glittering kysho blossoms; eyes dark from want of sleep, lips cracked from desperate thirst, once-mauve skin baked a raw violet from far too much sun.
His Most Imperial Majesty Vharmond II toasted his brother, and emptied his glass. The saccawine’s taste defined the word ‘sweet.’ “In your darkest nightmares, did you ever think to find yourself in such a state?”
“He dreams of his people,” said a voice beside him. “Never himself.”
The Emperor turned to face this upstart. The woman sitting to his left was dressed in the robes and flowing headdress of a courtly advisor, trimmed with his own colors of course. He couldn’t recognize her face. The top half, anyway, the bottom being hidden under a veil of the Beldrini style, bone white. Why would he have any Beldrini on staff? Did he even have any female advisors? The answer hovered at the edge of his memory. Too far away to grasp.
“Don’t you mean he dreamed, young lady?” Vharmond II certainly had no intention of letting his prize enjoy the escape of sleep.
“No,” she answered. “He’s dreaming right now. Of those who fly his banner, whether publicly or in secret. He mourns for all who will suffer should you claim the throne. He sees this palace in ruin, you sitting atop a throne of ash-”
“How dare you!” he spat, throwing an armored hand back towards the flower-filled bushes. “How can you doubt my victory over him? Are you blind? Can you not see the very living trophy of my success-” He looked back to face his brother, but the wretched head was no longer there. Nor the gardens, or hedges, or trees. Only desert as far as his eyes could see. Further than his eyes should see. The sands at the far edges blowing upward to dissolve against a dull grey sky.
“No!” He roared, rising from his seat. Not at all put out by the landscape. Only by the one important thing missing from it. “I found him! I… I’m going to find him!” Up the nearest, gilded, staircase he stormed. Shoving away his guards and hanger-on, who collapsed into piles of dust. “I will find him!” His foot touched the Grand Veranda, which lay between the grounds and the Palace’s rear entrance. But where his regal leathers should have touched stone, they sank into sand.
There, waiting for him, was the woman he’d left down below. Above her white veil, the skin about her eyes was too pale a lavender. Her eyes too dark a purple. “And how will you find him?” she asked.
“How will I...?” He couldn’t remember why he was so certain that Charloq was in his grasp. Ignoring the advisor, he looked past her to the Palace’s rear entry. Two large, tall doors of strongest wood and steel. Embossed with his personal crest. No, his father’s? His own again? Six thick, two-story pillars of brightest marble stood before the wide stairway leading to the portal. What could he find there to assure himself in there? Maps? Tacticians? Prisoners ripe for torture?
The woman had a thought. Presented as a question. “Your master spy, perhaps? What was his name again…?”
“Iryat!” Vharmond spat, precious memory spurred back to the surface by deepest hate. “Iryat has already infiltrated my brother’s encampment! Even now, he’s gathering precious information on numbers, weapons, rations!” Even now? Not ‘already done?’
“No,” she shook her head solemnly. “I’m afraid he’s fled the field.”
Far to the left and right of the door, the Palace’s largest granite towers crumbled into sand. The force of their collapse sent a brown plume charging towards the pair.
“Impossible!” he shouted into the gritty wind. Which didn’t seem to be letting up, either in strength or content.
The woman did not move an inch. “He dreams of escaping you.”
No! Not loyal Iryat! “Why would he ever…?”
The woman tapped her chin with her hand thoughtfully. Her fingers were a little too long, her unpainted nails a little too dark. “Perhaps he knows what happens to people like him when people like you decide they know too much.” More and more of the castle tumbled down, down, down. Pouring further sand and debris to a growing storm. The big doors flew away, disappearing into a small brown horizon that ended far too soon.
“My generals will root the traitor out!” He declared, meaning every word. The structural collapse ceased, leaving the pillars untouched. And only these. Each one now embossed at the cap with four jagged lines. His generals! There to save him from the maelstrom!
The woman’s smile could be heard, not seen. “Your generals? One of them dreams of nothing but supplanting you.” Every word resounded clearly, despite the din of the furious wind.
The pillars began to lumber across what was left of the veranda. Coming to their Emperor’s aid! “Never! I killed all the commanders who weren’t loyal to me!” The storm roared back at him. Or was that the pounding of his heart?
The woman turned halfway. Her finger motioned from one column to the other and back again, as if choosing one among their number. But she put her hand down without making a selection. “One of them is playing the patient game. He’s certain your hungers will not end with your brother’s lands. Or those of your neighbors. He’s going to let you eat your fill. He’ll wait for your subjects to cry out for a champion. And when they do…” She marked the air with a downward swipe of her finger. Vharmond felt a pain in his ribs, and glanced down to see a line of blood falling down his bare breast.
The woman threw back her head and arms in manic laughter.
“No! You lie!!!” He charged. Fighting the sand under his feet, and slamming against his legs and chest and arms, to get hold of the mad woman. To kill her! But even as he neared her, her form became sand. She fell apart in his hands, her substance joining that which swirled around him. Carving into his skin from all sides, shredding what clothes he had left. But the laughter never stopped. It grew louder, and somehow wider. Encompassing everything as Vharmond turned wildly, fitfully, without direction. Seeking shelter.
Seeing nothing but the pillars closing in on him from all sides.
. . .
Shiall pulled herself out of her trance. Back into the reality her people were presently occupying. There, sitting before her as though already he knew she had news, because he always knew, was her fellow Dreamseaker, Ab’Dros. The pair’s faces were both all but bereft of detail; masks of solid bone featuring not much more than thick brows and bulbous black eyes. Much the same as the other, save that her chin was smoother of curve and more pointed at the tip than his own. And his horns were shorter, thicker, and swept back in one swift stroke, while hers reached skyward with pronounced recurve. Their skin was dark, their hair was pale. Hers shoulder-length and partially braided, his longer and tamed with beads.
They were seated within a spacious tent. Incense and warm beer flavored the air. Around them, a circle of more Dreamspeakers lost in their own searches for dreams to observe and explore. A few apprentices diligently patrolled the circle for signs of any distress on the parts of the entranced. Ready to alert Ab’Dros or another Master to come the aid of a fellow Never-Wake who’d lost themselves in the place between dreams, or found a dreamer capable of ensnaring their soul.
The Demons’ garments this circle were mostly practical. Made of hide and linen; trustworthy materials which were multiversally constant enough to not break down under one set of physical laws or another. But there were personal flourishes to be found aplenty. A mithril brooch here. An Elizabethan ruffle there. A sleek spacer’s jacket. A jaunty cape. Whatever each individual found amusing or useful within the myriad of realities through which the great tribe wandered in its search for battles worthy of telling in tale for years to come. Shiall for her part was rather fond of the dinosaur feathers that adorned her dress.
“I believe I have a target,” she told her mentor. A long tongue sneaked out from beneath and behind her chin as she spoke. “A rather unpleasant fellow is about to kill his way to a throne in a Shadow not far from here. He’s built up a sizable military force.”
Dreamspeaker Ab’Dros cocked his head to one side. “And by ‘unpleasant’ you mean…?”
“A homicidal lunatic with delusions of grandeur and a hard-on for fratricide,” she answered frankly. “No one the multiverse will miss. If we get to his Shadow fast enough, we might even save a more noble faction poised to assert control.” Her split tail-tip weaved mischievously. “I think I put some worry into him.”
The elder’s own tail curled itself into a pattern of wry amusement. “You young ones, always thinking you can save a whole world by ridding it of but one pest.”
She extended a long, brutally clawed, finger to him. “Would you like to see for yourself the kind of man I seek to have our forces battle?”
He waved it away. “Not necessary. I’ve learned to trust your instincts. If you say there is a fight worthy to entertain the Sleepers Under The Dark…” He waited for her very affirmative nod. A battle of the size she envisioned would certainly give their gods reason to keep from waking. “…Then I believe you. But if you truly believe time is of the essence, you’d best go plead your case to the High Chief yourself.”
Shaill’s tail-tips went ridged. “Master?”
The wry curl returned. “You’re no longer my apprentice. You don’t need me to speak for you. Convince Sl’Sa’Van of your need for haste. If you think giving some ‘noble faction’ a helping hand is worth pulling him out of his bed. Or away from his bedmates.”
The young Demoness tapped her claw against her chin for a few moments. Then got up and left the tent.
<--- PREV| FIRST | NEXT --->
This is a submission to the Thursday Prompt writing group. Combining the prompts ‘prince’ and ‘muttering.’ Check out the group's user page here: https://www.furaffinity.net/user/thursdayprompt/
And the other stories generated from these prompts here: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/29634217/ and here: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/29069282/
It also ties into a group of tales based on a group id Demons I created for an Amber Diceless RPG campain. The whole of which can be accessed via the index below.
<--- PREV| FIRST | NEXT --->
Other Mens’ Dreams
By: DankeDonuts
https://www.furaffinity.net/user/dankedonuts/
When Prince Vharmond sat down upon his bed to prepare for sleep, he noticed a drop of blood upon his otherwise flawless boot. “The perfect testament to a day well spent,” he chuckled. The walls of his command tent weren’t as thick as they should be, allowing the sound of his armies to filter through. The sounds of blades being sharpened on a hundred grinding wheels, armor being reinforced by countless hammers, and the tremor of boots upon boots upon boots. More squads marching in every minute. The best possible lullaby.
He leaned over to unlace the footwear with a vicious smirk that warped his long, magenta beard. “Tomorrow, my brother, your pathetic resistance ends.” The largest army the world had seen since the Ancient Conquerors was forming just outside. “And my slow vengeance upon you will begin.” Still, the sweet drone from outside. Begging to be appreciated. Snapping his will to focus on undressing. The ruler-to-be had barely gotten his gambeson off before the Sisters Of Slumber beckoned him. He leaned slowly onto his pillow, forgetting the covers. Muttering an old promise to himself. “No… You won’t die… Not for a long time yet...”
. . .
Some time later, he was Emperor. Dressed in the finest regalia of deep brown and brilliant orange. A crown of silver leaves atop his head. Sitting with his retinue under a decorative sun cover. Chilled drink in hand, overlooking the rear grounds of the Palace Supreme. It pristinely manicured gardens laid out before a vast hedge maze. Ancient trees lines up to either side, blue sentinels. His brother, Charloq, was there as well. Buried up to his head before the glittering kysho blossoms; eyes dark from want of sleep, lips cracked from desperate thirst, once-mauve skin baked a raw violet from far too much sun.
His Most Imperial Majesty Vharmond II toasted his brother, and emptied his glass. The saccawine’s taste defined the word ‘sweet.’ “In your darkest nightmares, did you ever think to find yourself in such a state?”
“He dreams of his people,” said a voice beside him. “Never himself.”
The Emperor turned to face this upstart. The woman sitting to his left was dressed in the robes and flowing headdress of a courtly advisor, trimmed with his own colors of course. He couldn’t recognize her face. The top half, anyway, the bottom being hidden under a veil of the Beldrini style, bone white. Why would he have any Beldrini on staff? Did he even have any female advisors? The answer hovered at the edge of his memory. Too far away to grasp.
“Don’t you mean he dreamed, young lady?” Vharmond II certainly had no intention of letting his prize enjoy the escape of sleep.
“No,” she answered. “He’s dreaming right now. Of those who fly his banner, whether publicly or in secret. He mourns for all who will suffer should you claim the throne. He sees this palace in ruin, you sitting atop a throne of ash-”
“How dare you!” he spat, throwing an armored hand back towards the flower-filled bushes. “How can you doubt my victory over him? Are you blind? Can you not see the very living trophy of my success-” He looked back to face his brother, but the wretched head was no longer there. Nor the gardens, or hedges, or trees. Only desert as far as his eyes could see. Further than his eyes should see. The sands at the far edges blowing upward to dissolve against a dull grey sky.
“No!” He roared, rising from his seat. Not at all put out by the landscape. Only by the one important thing missing from it. “I found him! I… I’m going to find him!” Up the nearest, gilded, staircase he stormed. Shoving away his guards and hanger-on, who collapsed into piles of dust. “I will find him!” His foot touched the Grand Veranda, which lay between the grounds and the Palace’s rear entrance. But where his regal leathers should have touched stone, they sank into sand.
There, waiting for him, was the woman he’d left down below. Above her white veil, the skin about her eyes was too pale a lavender. Her eyes too dark a purple. “And how will you find him?” she asked.
“How will I...?” He couldn’t remember why he was so certain that Charloq was in his grasp. Ignoring the advisor, he looked past her to the Palace’s rear entry. Two large, tall doors of strongest wood and steel. Embossed with his personal crest. No, his father’s? His own again? Six thick, two-story pillars of brightest marble stood before the wide stairway leading to the portal. What could he find there to assure himself in there? Maps? Tacticians? Prisoners ripe for torture?
The woman had a thought. Presented as a question. “Your master spy, perhaps? What was his name again…?”
“Iryat!” Vharmond spat, precious memory spurred back to the surface by deepest hate. “Iryat has already infiltrated my brother’s encampment! Even now, he’s gathering precious information on numbers, weapons, rations!” Even now? Not ‘already done?’
“No,” she shook her head solemnly. “I’m afraid he’s fled the field.”
Far to the left and right of the door, the Palace’s largest granite towers crumbled into sand. The force of their collapse sent a brown plume charging towards the pair.
“Impossible!” he shouted into the gritty wind. Which didn’t seem to be letting up, either in strength or content.
The woman did not move an inch. “He dreams of escaping you.”
No! Not loyal Iryat! “Why would he ever…?”
The woman tapped her chin with her hand thoughtfully. Her fingers were a little too long, her unpainted nails a little too dark. “Perhaps he knows what happens to people like him when people like you decide they know too much.” More and more of the castle tumbled down, down, down. Pouring further sand and debris to a growing storm. The big doors flew away, disappearing into a small brown horizon that ended far too soon.
“My generals will root the traitor out!” He declared, meaning every word. The structural collapse ceased, leaving the pillars untouched. And only these. Each one now embossed at the cap with four jagged lines. His generals! There to save him from the maelstrom!
The woman’s smile could be heard, not seen. “Your generals? One of them dreams of nothing but supplanting you.” Every word resounded clearly, despite the din of the furious wind.
The pillars began to lumber across what was left of the veranda. Coming to their Emperor’s aid! “Never! I killed all the commanders who weren’t loyal to me!” The storm roared back at him. Or was that the pounding of his heart?
The woman turned halfway. Her finger motioned from one column to the other and back again, as if choosing one among their number. But she put her hand down without making a selection. “One of them is playing the patient game. He’s certain your hungers will not end with your brother’s lands. Or those of your neighbors. He’s going to let you eat your fill. He’ll wait for your subjects to cry out for a champion. And when they do…” She marked the air with a downward swipe of her finger. Vharmond felt a pain in his ribs, and glanced down to see a line of blood falling down his bare breast.
The woman threw back her head and arms in manic laughter.
“No! You lie!!!” He charged. Fighting the sand under his feet, and slamming against his legs and chest and arms, to get hold of the mad woman. To kill her! But even as he neared her, her form became sand. She fell apart in his hands, her substance joining that which swirled around him. Carving into his skin from all sides, shredding what clothes he had left. But the laughter never stopped. It grew louder, and somehow wider. Encompassing everything as Vharmond turned wildly, fitfully, without direction. Seeking shelter.
Seeing nothing but the pillars closing in on him from all sides.
. . .
Shiall pulled herself out of her trance. Back into the reality her people were presently occupying. There, sitting before her as though already he knew she had news, because he always knew, was her fellow Dreamseaker, Ab’Dros. The pair’s faces were both all but bereft of detail; masks of solid bone featuring not much more than thick brows and bulbous black eyes. Much the same as the other, save that her chin was smoother of curve and more pointed at the tip than his own. And his horns were shorter, thicker, and swept back in one swift stroke, while hers reached skyward with pronounced recurve. Their skin was dark, their hair was pale. Hers shoulder-length and partially braided, his longer and tamed with beads.
They were seated within a spacious tent. Incense and warm beer flavored the air. Around them, a circle of more Dreamspeakers lost in their own searches for dreams to observe and explore. A few apprentices diligently patrolled the circle for signs of any distress on the parts of the entranced. Ready to alert Ab’Dros or another Master to come the aid of a fellow Never-Wake who’d lost themselves in the place between dreams, or found a dreamer capable of ensnaring their soul.
The Demons’ garments this circle were mostly practical. Made of hide and linen; trustworthy materials which were multiversally constant enough to not break down under one set of physical laws or another. But there were personal flourishes to be found aplenty. A mithril brooch here. An Elizabethan ruffle there. A sleek spacer’s jacket. A jaunty cape. Whatever each individual found amusing or useful within the myriad of realities through which the great tribe wandered in its search for battles worthy of telling in tale for years to come. Shiall for her part was rather fond of the dinosaur feathers that adorned her dress.
“I believe I have a target,” she told her mentor. A long tongue sneaked out from beneath and behind her chin as she spoke. “A rather unpleasant fellow is about to kill his way to a throne in a Shadow not far from here. He’s built up a sizable military force.”
Dreamspeaker Ab’Dros cocked his head to one side. “And by ‘unpleasant’ you mean…?”
“A homicidal lunatic with delusions of grandeur and a hard-on for fratricide,” she answered frankly. “No one the multiverse will miss. If we get to his Shadow fast enough, we might even save a more noble faction poised to assert control.” Her split tail-tip weaved mischievously. “I think I put some worry into him.”
The elder’s own tail curled itself into a pattern of wry amusement. “You young ones, always thinking you can save a whole world by ridding it of but one pest.”
She extended a long, brutally clawed, finger to him. “Would you like to see for yourself the kind of man I seek to have our forces battle?”
He waved it away. “Not necessary. I’ve learned to trust your instincts. If you say there is a fight worthy to entertain the Sleepers Under The Dark…” He waited for her very affirmative nod. A battle of the size she envisioned would certainly give their gods reason to keep from waking. “…Then I believe you. But if you truly believe time is of the essence, you’d best go plead your case to the High Chief yourself.”
Shaill’s tail-tips went ridged. “Master?”
The wry curl returned. “You’re no longer my apprentice. You don’t need me to speak for you. Convince Sl’Sa’Van of your need for haste. If you think giving some ‘noble faction’ a helping hand is worth pulling him out of his bed. Or away from his bedmates.”
The young Demoness tapped her claw against her chin for a few moments. Then got up and left the tent.
<--- PREV| FIRST | NEXT --->
Category Story / Fantasy
Species Daemon
Size 120 x 120px
File Size 99.8 kB
Comments