The ILL and The Dreamer

  • *Disclamer - Mature Themes

    The Ill and the Dreamer


                Filth. That was the first word that Kjald thought of when he entered the town of Morgenstern. All of the buildings were rotten to the core, like five year old apples. Loathsome rats and roaches ran rampant in the sculleries. All of the plant life had perished, leaving only sad remnants of the flora and fauna that once thrived there. Sticks littered the ground and Kjald could feel the crunch of broken glass and bottles under his boots. The slum reeked of rotting animals and smoke, making it challenging to breathe. As a merchant, Kjald had been to many places, but none had been as ill and perverse as Morgenstern.

                The people walking along the roads were as vile as the town they lived in. They were as nasty as vultures. Their hair was as greasy as bacon and their teeth were as black as coal. If you looked close enough, you could even see pieces of fetid meat stuck in their decaying ivories. They all wore stained rags that covered their begrimed, boil-covered bodies. This place was sick, yet Kjald trudged on. He needed the directions to the queen’s castle.

               Out of the corner of his eye, Kjald saw a repulsive old man shuffling towards him. He walked with a limp, and his feet kicked dirt into the sky. His body was as multicolored as a rainbow, sporting all manners of cuts, contusions, and other abominations. The old man was panting, showing off his blackened, bloodied gums and lack of teeth. Kjald shuddered, and approached the old man.

               “Good morning, sir”, said Kjald, “would you have a look at my wares? Or perhaps you could show me the castle’s direction?”

               The old man said nothing, but instead tried to snatch Kjald’s knapsack. The old man was too slow, and instead snatched a left hook to the face from Kjald. The old man fell to the ground and started sobbing hysterically. Kjald drew his shining blade and aimed it at the old man's jugular.

               “Kill me!” he croaked “I have nothing to live for! My wife and daughter have succumbed to the illness. I have no money. I HAVE NOTHING! WE DIDN’T ASK FOR THIS!”

               After hesitating, Kjald filleted his heart. Blood and water spilled out of the dead man’s wound. He looked at the corpse for a while, and then turned back to the center of town. All of the other citizens in the town were facing him, watching him. Kjold took a step back, surprised. They seemed to be whispering, or maybe it was the wind blowing through the dead trees. The volume rose. It was definitely people making the noise, and they were chanting something:

               “Somnium. Nunquam. Excito.”  

               The temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees.

               “Somnium! Nunquam! Excito!

               The earth started rumbling.

               “SOMNIUM! NUNQUAM! EXCITO!

               “What did I get myself in to this time?” wondered Kjald.

               Kjald bolted into the nearest building he could. It was dimly lit, and he could barely see.

               “Welcome stranger.”

               CLACK! Someone standing in the shadows swung their staff into the back of Kjald’s skull. The man then threw Kjald into an old, yellowed body bag.


               Kjald awoke tied to a tree, with birds tweeting all around him. His head felt like it had been stepped on by a mammoth. The sun was shining brighter than he had ever seen before, and couldn’t open his eyes. THWACK! A fidgety-looking Breton haymaker’d Kjald in the left cheek.

               The Breton was a shaky young lad. Grotesque, too. He had a goatish face, glutinous, matted hair, and he looked like he hadn't eaten in a week. Various weeping lacerations scarred his back, and horrific boils carpeted the entire length of his body. His yellowed toenails were crimson canyons, all cracked and bloody. He was nigh feral, and looked ravenous for anything, even his own race.

               “WHERE IS IT?!” wailed the Breton.

               Kjald, too shocked to reply, just stared at the Breton.

               “YOU HAVE IT! I KNOW YOU DO! I KNOW!”

               A green froth was forming at the fringes of the Breton's mouth and he started twitching and trembling.


               The Breton started mercilessly kicking Kjald in the shin.

               "One, two, three, four, five," counted the Breton, "...sixty-four...sixty-five...sixty-six..."



              The Breton broke Kjald’s leg in the middle of a shin. His leg had been tormented into a “V” shape. A bone was sticking out of Kjald's calf. It would be impossible to walk.


               Suddenly the Breton started violently vomiting a vile green liquid. He fell to the forest floor and started convulsing. The Breton then floated up into the air and his left arm started folding backwards like a chicken wing. CRACK! Kjald had to look away. The Breton's fingers were bending different ways at the knuckles. POP! SNAP! His legs started twisting upward at the knee. CRACK! POP! The Breton’s eyes were fluttering. Bones were poking out through his skin. Blood was oozing like a waterfall onto the green grass. He was in agony. He let out a final scream, and then went silent. He then fell to the ground as dead weight, with a thud.

               Kjald on the other hand, was untouched by the invisible magic, but he was floating in and out of consciousness. His head was bobbing up and down, and he was mumbling gibberish. Suddenly the unseen force grabbed his cranium, and forced his head up. The Breton was there in front of him, floating again. One thing Kjald noticed is that the Breton’s eyes were missing; only bloody, void sockets remained. The Breton’s face cracked into a sneer, showing bloody gums and missing teeth. He spoke, but it was a sinister female voice that rang out.

               “Foolish mortal, you will never escape Quagmire.”

               The Breton laughed mockingly. Kjald whimpered, and shouted to the sky, as he knew what was coming next.

               His vision went blurry...

               The nightmare shifted.


7 Comments   |   Legion likes this.
  • Gollum
    Gollum   ·  July 10, 2015
    Increased text size
  • Gollum
    Gollum   ·  July 8, 2015
    Thanks Unhelpful! I am glad you liked it so much
  • The Wing
    The Wing   ·  July 8, 2015
    The sense of surrealism is so strong here. Well well WELL done. The part where the Breton started floating and his joints were bending in the wrong directions was spot-on eerie. I nearly shivered for real. 
  • Gollum
    Gollum   ·  July 7, 2015
    Thanks guys, it means a lot
  • Xeelus
    Xeelus   ·  July 7, 2015
    Love it =D
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  July 7, 2015
    Lordy, wow. Remind me not to go there. Well done though. It is very macabre. 
  • Sotek
    Sotek   ·  July 7, 2015
    That's my visit to Quagmire scratched off my list of places to visit. I think I'll head across the plains with Aela instead.