Pg.1 Prelude
The Anger of Dreamstride
he blade cut through the air, splitting the cloud of horrors in two. The dirge of steel, flesh, and dirt echoed across the unstable reality like the sadistic bells of a twisted cathedral. Death sang with each swing, the clang of battle and the screams of another’s end was all that he had found here. Yet the swordsman pressed on. Whatever drove him was unknown to the denizens of the Quagmire, but he and only he knew that his motive belonged to a singular entity: the vengeful Malacath. Sweat slipped from his blood spattered brow, the droplet's collision with the earth beneath his boots frenzied a storm. Heavy rain fell all around. The realm began to fold in upon itself, shifting before his very eyes.
There was no solace in the Dreamstride, there was only ever changing chaos. This tortured existence was the temper of The Anger. Days of suffering, days of ceaseless battle, days of anguish, each hour of pain forging a beast from rage. Time offered a bloodied reflection of his inner demons, hardening his mind, warping his person. The Black Swordsman was born in the depths of an eternal nightmare and it was here that he thrived...
The amusement of the Daedric Prince that reigned over the realm was audible, each time he struck down a manifestation of fear- a cackle sounded and another abomination rose to takes it's place. The cycle was seemingly endless, but still he tread forward. Invading dream after dream, encroaching upon the nightmares of others, it became his purpose.
"How long can you continue? You've been searching for years... Trapped... For years."
Vaermina. It's voice, that of an old crone, would sound over even the loudest tempest to taunt the swordsman. This Prince, whose sphere was that of nightmares and torture, was elated at the perseverance of her old plaything. The swordsman wondered if it would ever grow tired of his intrusion, or perhaps it truly was unable to hinder him.
