In the Dreamscape
He was born with a forbidden power. It was a black spot upon his soul, which marked him for death from the moment of his creation. Still, by some luck of utter providence, he’d been spared. He was allowed to come up without interference.
With no predator to bring him down he was able to hone and protect the knowledge of his dark arts. He could travel where he wished to gain whatever power he deemed fit.
The humans were surprisingly simple to manipulate. In dreams they believed themselves to be beyond injury and reproach. To be fair, if it weren’t for his power, that would have been true. But, given his talents, they were far from safe. He relished this power and exploited it whenever he got the chance.
He longed to know how long his influence would last, and how far the subject would go.
He entered the dreamscape and began to shape the dream how he wished. Blood and horror replaced the banal dream he found before him. He wanted blood, and his subject would too.
He left sated and waited for dawn to arrive. He marveled at the sheer terror and exhilaration on the human’s face. He had succeeded in his aim.
He watched as the human went about their day. To the unknown, not much had changed, but he knew.
He pushed his power into them, and the blood he craved flowed like a river. He was entirely in control, and all it took was one dream.
No one was safe, and he was victorious. Sweet dreams could turn sour, and no one would be the wiser.
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