It was clear that this was not reality. Only a dream could smell like this, look like this, feel like this. It smelled like nothing, but also of a something, like burnt ozone and burnt iron, wafting through the air and crawling, bit by bit, limb by limb, up into the brain, where they sat, heavy, and metallic. The sky was not a sky, nor was the ground a ground, but nor was it a featureless, empty, nothingness. Characteristic to dreams, the settings were flickering, not set into any concept of reality, constantly flipping around, and changing, and being forgotten just as any one setting was decided upon. Then, there was the sensation, the sensation, which made it obvious that this was only something crafted by the machinations of the mind.
It was cool. Cool, windless, the distant mourning-song of forgetfulness dangling with just the faintest, oddest, most uncomfortable of feelings. Like a limb, that’s gone numb and unfeeling from stiffness, like that limb roaring back to feeling with a feeling akin to watching static play on the screen, but not bone-deep. No, that feeling, that sensation, only went down to the edge of the dermas, just on the skin, dancing along like electricity if electricity was a dragging, mewling little infant with a thousand claws and not a force of nature.
From the ever-flickering edges of this dream place, slithered forth a thing. A great, crawling, foul thing made out of ichor, smoke, and smog, limbs pawing the air, grasping for purchase, gaping maws closing and opening, almost as if screaming in pain, but with no sound coming out. Each limb that reached out, that fell, fell, and dissolved into thick, black smoke, that steadily filled this space, as if it was a room. It clouded the vision, and made the place stink more and more like metal, like rotten blood, sitting sticky and black at the underside of a shoe.
The dragging creature of sludge wept, like an mewling little infant with a thousand claws, battling against life itself, as it seemed to crawl, and crawl, and crawl—
“Hello.” Comes a voice, a thin whispy voice that’s this close to being carried off by the smell, comes just from behind the solitary, human figure standing here. It was a shape, not out of ichor or smoke, but or something in between. It stood, in the general shape of a boy, but with no features save for a pair of glowing white and black eyes.
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