Spore of Infestation

(These are the ramblings of a madman who was found half-dead where the disappeared village of Fishmund and its inhabitants used to be. He has vanished from his cell the night after uttering these final words of madness)

The fiends of deeps have come and brought destruction. They rose at night under the shroud of stars, from the putrid abyss that houses a thousand eyes. The thing it slept and festered in deeps, but now awakened by those of lucid dreams it embraced in its tendrils of fears, inviting the souls of those who knew naught but cheers unto the empire of corruption.
The fortunate had their lives taken, their twisted bodies with alien mind would awaken and serve the dreamer whose nightmares for blessing the foolish have mistaken. Those who begged and cried would be enthralled under the blanket of stars and solace in the dream they were made to find; their mind and the Dreamer’s, one they are now. No joy, no love, no cheer, their hearts just a vessel of madness and fear.
Dear Luna, my guardess, her journey like scythe’s swing guided me through the hours of darkness. And as she upon the field of black ascends, her midnight embrace blinded the fiends of depths to my existence. Yet I could not escape the Dreamer’s gaze, and with fear the numbing blackness of my mind I had embraced. Providence had sealed my fate as unseen to both mind’s and naked  eye my body remained.
Caressed by tendrils of the kindly kind, I awoke to the rays of  morning, the light of which my eyes would blind, and my sanity once again had begun forming.
But the land I found myself upon, was not the land I knew for, oh… so long. It was black and scarred and sick and dark, and though I unsure of my own sanity, I at least hoped for a flicker  of familiarity. But the land, the grass, the beasts, the farms were the ones I knew, but lacking all the cheerful charms.
The scar on land and scar on soul are all that now remains. The houses, the folk the meadows, the  oaks, all but a memory that fuels my grieving veins.
But I survived with more than scar of soul, on my body the horror had also taken its toll: Yellow eyes, few white strands, rotten teeth. Prolonged arms, frog-like hands, conjoined feet.  
Now I tell this tale in a prison of clay, for I tried to warn but was met with nay. A madman I am for saying the truth, the truth that doesn’t the heart sooth. Every night I lay in my prison bed, I see the same visions of horror and dread. I know what lies beneath, I know what rules above, I know what dreams under our feet, what waits under the mud. They are awaking, they are awaking, they are awaking…

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