Prologue
This is the prologue of a story I'm writing. Please tell me if you like it or not, as all feed back is welcome. If I need to improve, please let me know, and I'll try to do it. If you liked something, don't be shy either. Thanks!
Dulagar was hell escaped. It was frigid temperatures, scathing hailstorms, and jagged ice peaks. It was sharp toothed predator and hunted prey. Dulagar was a wintry wasteland. It was cloud-smothered sun and searing frostbite. It never snowed there, but snow was always on the ground, unmelted, eternal. The ice was ruled by fearsome creatures, abominations that existed here only. Things that in other lands would have been merely frightening tales, based in myth. In Dulagar, myth was reality. Every evil that haunted the sleeping minds of the Otherlanders sprang to life here, brought into existence by their terror. And therein lay the duality of Dulagar: it was real, but only in nightmares, separated from reality long ago in an ancient and long forgotten war between the Old Ones.
Glaurath, Lord of Dulagar, remembered the war. He hadn't forgotten. He'd been there, shapeless shadow amongst piecing light, fighting for the darkness. Now weakened and banished, he oversaw the sleeping mental torture of the humans from his kingdom. He knew them intimately, what made hem tick. What made them scream. Always disguised he was, never allowing them to see his face. They knew him as depression, anxiety, or merely a dark shape chasing them through countless devised dreamscapes.
But Glaurath had become bored of this. He sought a greater goal now than terrorizing the unconscious minds of the Otherlanders. So he had planned, waited and schemed, channeling his hatred into a task greater than any he had achieved. Years passed while his armies worked, slaving away at their masters designs. As they toiled, the landscape around them remained changeless, heralding nothing of the evil coming, silent and icy.
Glaurath, Lord of Dulagar was almost ready to put his dark plans into action. His cold heart burned with mingled icy hatred and pleasure, all his will bent toward his purpose.
Darkness.
P
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