Post by grimzor on Feb 12, 2010 1:14:25 GMT -5
Deep beneath the crust of the slumbering earth, coiled amid the thick, dark teeth of the cavern, he sleeps. Like the dead themselves, he lies motionless, for season upon season. No sound, no light, and no other life dares to penetrate this vile realm. Though the sleeper lies as though death has stolen across the hulking thing, a dream still dares to stir within it.
Fire and brimstone errupt in a chaotic dance, swirling across the lands. Screaming hordes of man, orc, and scourge flee beneath the onslaught of fiery rain. Wings of doom carry the relentless, fiery cleansing from shore to shore, as the very earth itself rises and falls in protestation. Screams for mercy, and death, ring out across the shuddering hills as the fires of doom illiminate a black, sunless sky. Clouds of ash block the sun, and fall upon the charred and broken lands like tainted snow, and yet still the sleeper's heart races with joy.
Ten thousand voices errupt in terror, as blasts of deadly flame and the mad earth rise up to shatter the gates of Orgrimmar, sundering it and burrying the masses beneath its bulk. Stormwind falls the same way, and soon nothing stands against the raging Cataclysm that the sleeper has helped to unleash. Above it all, the Father rises on thermals born of chaos and death. Above it all, the Father looks down upon the sleeper, his deep and Godly laughter ringing through the sundered sky as he lays praise upon his minion, one of his own true ilk. The immense, booming voice of the Father shatters buildings, and lays low whole forests of dead and ashen trees.
"You have done well, son of my daughter," booms the voice of the Sleeper's God. "Your place amongst my favored is safe, and I will reward you greatly."
And even though this dream has yet to come to pass, the sleeper smiles, a wicked and toothy grin, lost to the darkness of his labyrinthine lair.