Post by Sam Guthrie on Aug 13, 2010 9:59:37 GMT -4
They were at war. Thousands of men had chosen to rebel against their tyrannical oppressor. They had banded together, living and fighting together in order to defeat their terrible foe.
But for all their brotherhood and spirit, nothing could have prepared them against the savagery of their foe.
Horrible war machines took to the battleground, sending terrible destructive beams searing into their ranks, huge stomping feet crushing their frail bodies. The powerful machines culling the ranks of the resistance to nearly nothing, the survivors looked on in horror at what remained of their brothers in arms.
But it was not over. With a roar even more terrible than the sound of the machines, the foot soldiers of the Empire had taken the battlefield to wipe the remainder of the resistance out.
The brutality of their leader was legendary. The veterans would often tell horror stories to cocksure young recruits about him to keep them humble. They said he kept a jar of souvenirs from the men he’d tortured. They say that he sold his soul for never ending battle.
And he led the armies of the Tyrant into battle.
He was leading them.
The nightmarish vision washed over him like a tidal wave of fear and anxiety, causing the young man to sit right up in bed. Cold sweat ran down his back, and his heart was pounding in his chest. He could hardly breathe.
Sam sat on the edge of the bed, letting his feet touch the floor of his dormitory. He tried to think about other things. The carpet under his feet was real, the sheets that covered his body were real. His god-awful pajama pants with the little dancing penguins all over them (Melody had gotten them for him one Christmas, and being a good big brother he had decided to keep them) were real.
Those things in his dreams couldn’t be real.
They just felt so...
He shuddered. He needed some air. He stood up, threw a shirt on and left the darkness of his room.
((to be continued elsewhere))
But for all their brotherhood and spirit, nothing could have prepared them against the savagery of their foe.
Horrible war machines took to the battleground, sending terrible destructive beams searing into their ranks, huge stomping feet crushing their frail bodies. The powerful machines culling the ranks of the resistance to nearly nothing, the survivors looked on in horror at what remained of their brothers in arms.
But it was not over. With a roar even more terrible than the sound of the machines, the foot soldiers of the Empire had taken the battlefield to wipe the remainder of the resistance out.
The brutality of their leader was legendary. The veterans would often tell horror stories to cocksure young recruits about him to keep them humble. They said he kept a jar of souvenirs from the men he’d tortured. They say that he sold his soul for never ending battle.
And he led the armies of the Tyrant into battle.
He was leading them.
The nightmarish vision washed over him like a tidal wave of fear and anxiety, causing the young man to sit right up in bed. Cold sweat ran down his back, and his heart was pounding in his chest. He could hardly breathe.
Sam sat on the edge of the bed, letting his feet touch the floor of his dormitory. He tried to think about other things. The carpet under his feet was real, the sheets that covered his body were real. His god-awful pajama pants with the little dancing penguins all over them (Melody had gotten them for him one Christmas, and being a good big brother he had decided to keep them) were real.
Those things in his dreams couldn’t be real.
They just felt so...
He shuddered. He needed some air. He stood up, threw a shirt on and left the darkness of his room.
((to be continued elsewhere))
