Beget nightmares

You open your eyes on a familiar prairie of dry grass hissing and blown by a blustery wind under a roiling leaden sky. Despite the stiff wind blowing across your face, you don’t feel cold or uncomfortable in the slightest. You see plumes of inky greasy black smoke rising on the horizon all around, hear the booms like distant thunder, and flashing lights like lightning on the distant horizon. The air smells smoky and heavy, so heavy that you can taste metal in your mouth and so noxious in your nose that it makes you want to sneeze.

“C̝͉̫̺͇͖̙̓ͮ̉ͪ̀͗o͕͑͛̏ͩ͋́ͅm̭͈͎̀̈̋̉̊ͦ̃ͦ̐e̹̲̦̫̙̙̙̰̾̓ͩ̉̀̍ ̪̩͚̫̲̝̜̘͇̆͆ͣͪͫa̭̰͖̞͈ͮ̏̽̒͂̌ͪ͑n̹͎̭͑͊ͥ̏̒̐̀̅d̟̪͚̩̋ͫ͂̚ͅ ̪̩͉̣͕̮͕̜̓͑͒͐͗̓̐ͮs̘̼̪͇͍͍̰̘ͭ̄̓ͫ̉ͨ͊e̮̹͉̦͇̅̌ͨͦ̑ḙ̖̽͒͆ͤ̊ͧ͛̆” you hear said by a voice like the sound of a trumpet, brash and loud.

You turn, and you see a figure riding towards you on the back of a sorrel colored horse. They pause a dozen paces from you, the horse snorting and swiveling its ears around cautiously, the rider regarding you through a bronze helmet that leaves their face an unseen black void inside it, wearing bronze armor pockmarked and scratched, and scabbard with sword swinging at their side.

You stand there for what feels like an eternity, only the wind and the thunder and the flashes to mark the passing of time between you and the horse and the rider. The horse sneezes and shakes their mane. The armored rider, clanking and clunking, brings a leg up and over their saddle, dropping down to the ground with a stomp, standing nearly a head taller then you. They pat the horse’s flanks as they stand there.

“Uh,” you venture, “hello?”

The rider looks to you, a black void behind the opening in their helmet.

“G̃̆ͯr̰̥̟̗ͫ̊ͭ̐̃eȅ̠̗̞͕͕̗̥̓ṭ͕̙̑̅i͈̦̥̹̓̂̓ͤ͛n̥̝̓͌g̼̜̹͎̤s̯͔̳͎͈̞͙͛̑̒̋ͤͮ͌!” The voice booms like thunder.

“Oh my God!” You shout back, jumping and clapping your hands to your ears in surprise and pain at the noise.

“Ỳ̖̄͒̅ͯo͊͂ͥu̺̱̳ ͇͈̃h̟̱̠̥̙͇̄͗͛̊̏̚̚ä͇̖̥̩́̒ͣ͆͂ͦ̚v̮̫͔̅̎ͨ̓͊ͅe̤̪̲̠̞̔͒̎̅́ ̭͕̣̟̥͈ͅb̼̲̲͈́͗̓͑̒ͣͤe͇̘̙ȅ͎̒̈̍̎̃n̫̜̺̰̜̪̺ ̠̫̃ͅc̝̠̙̠͈͕̥͂̿̾̐͌̐̐h̦͉͊̅̅͑̚o̒ͥ̈́͗s͈̜͚̼̬̬̈́͛͌̓ͅĕ͈͌n̳̜̼͔̩̬̆ͩ́ͤ͌,” the voice roars inside your head, like the discordant sound of a thousand voices all mingling.

“What?” You scream back, head spinning in pain from the volume.

“Ḯ͔̼͙̮̳̅͗ͬ̍͌͊ͩ̊f̱̳̩̗͍̞̞ͦ̊ ̟̞͈̖̱̍ͮͅẗ͓̝͚̟̪͕͚͇̋ͫ̇ḣ͈̱̤̟̼̭͙͎̊ͫͪ͆̑o̥̺̙͉̪̝̮̫͋̏ͪ̔̓u͙͇͋̔ͤ̔ ̦̠͍͚̺͚̜̠͛̔́̊ḷ̼͙͚̥̩̝ͮ̈́i͙͔͇̘̼̙̱ͯ͛̋̆v̙̣̣̤̌͆̏̈ͬͦ̑̇̾ͅĕ̹̺̩̗͔̪͓̙̮̓̍̉͐̌͒̒ͭs̪͎̲̝̳͎̒̒,̦͍̭̟͓͈͇̲̆̉̓̄̑͐̔ͫ” the voice bellowed, “T̖̯̃̊̃̎ͪ̽͌ͅh̬͔͈͕̻̻̟̉̌ͩ̆̒͛̏o̼͎̖̘͎͕̝ͭ̑̔͛ͯ̐̊́ͅu̗ͧ̈ ͚͉̬ͧ̾̇͐̈́s̲̭̫̩̯̞̑ͣ͗ͥ́̈h̭̻̝͈͎̪ͣ͂̅͛̉̉ͧ̋͒ͅa̖̰̳̻̠̬ͦ̐̌l̤̳̥̣͉̞̠͆̀̽̍̉͆t̻͖ͣ̆̈́̏̈͆ ̫̼̺͈̜̞̻̮͉̀̄͗̓̐̅͗b̩͉̓̐͆e͕̖̰̣̗̅͗̿̽ ̰̖̐r͓͎̓͊ͫͨe͙̠̰̺̼̳̤̥͑̄̐͐ͤ̈́̃̚t̩̟̘̃̀̊ͧ̎̽̓̓ͪu̥̞̺̦͗͐̑̈́̍̚r̩̙̲̳̜̫̬ͪ͊̀̎ͭ͐n̺̹̣̙̘͐̐ͨͧ͑e̠̮͇͒ͥ̍̓̾ͨd̺̫̦̥̠͚̯̓̂ͪ͆ ̭̩̲͉̝̘͚̰ͮt̘̞͉̬͉͍͖͖͒ͪͭ̈́ͦ̚o̺̠̭͚̜͙͚̐̓ͤͯ̎ ̯̱̰̠͈̗̏̈̓̆̏͐̒̓y͓̠͔̙̩͊ͬͭ̊ͧo͓̮̪͎̞̪͉̫̔͒̅͋͆̚u̼̤͓͙̔̾ṟ̩̣͓̆͐̐̽ͣ ̳̞̖̔̎́͌͑͋h̦͕̩̟͉͓̠͇̽͌ͧͪ͋ͅo̥̙̪̳̙̳̺ͫ̄̽̋m̺̼̖͍̭͙̱̒̈͌ͧͣe͇͚̗̲̪̝̞͖͎̒̋,̪͇͉̗̼̦̟̖͉ͪ̋ ̻̥̼͇̼̱͗̈́̓͑͆ͦa̰̖̠̠͇̩̅͌̑͋̂ṅ̹̩̞͖̤̒̚ͅͅͅó̠͈̼̈́ͣḭ͚͉̙̱͉͙̪ͯ̋͑̌ͧ͂n̘̫̦͙͔͉̞͈̳̒̀͑̏͌t͎̩̰̠̗̿̿̍̇̎́̌e̠ͣ̉̽ͥ͊d̗͎̺͓̼̣̥͌̋ ̭̙͌̂̈́̄ͥͧẉ̫̣͍̩̘̘̰͐̓i̝̫̩̯̘̖̫ͧ͌̈̒t̝͇̋ͣ̿͗ͤ̔ͦ͒h̠̣͍̙͌ͬ̅͋̎̎ ͙̅̔͛̃̀͋t̯̂͑͛ͩͨ͋ͬ̍h͚̘̫̥̻͈̞̘̾ͩͥ͑e̙̳̙̤̣̟̼ͨ̊͑ͦ̃̿ͅ ̺̳̭̥̰͕̦̿͗̎̐̎ͅb̻̲͎̰̠̳̯ͥͣ͆ͧ̋̓̐̅ͅl͕̜͓̱͔̹̝̓̏̈́̒e̯͔͙̹̝̅ͨͣ̾͊̎ͬŝ̳͊̚ͅs̰͇̮̠͊͊ͮͯͥ̾͂̎̇i̝̯̝̳͖̥͊̈ͅn͓̖̭̄̋ͪͩ̚ͅg̲͙̣̖̥̼͇͗̾̈́͂̐̽̾̋̄s̗̘̪̜̃ͩͪ͆ ̮̫͔̲̮̆͛̈́̒͆̚ô̩͕̮̣͈̟̤͋̒̄̑̈́ͅf̭̟̣̥̙̗̖̺͇̅ͪ͐ ̥̺̪͇̙̾ͪ̎ͦ̊̓Ŵ̦͕̣̣̃̒͒a̝͉͇̭̗̥͎ͦr̖̩͓̣ͮ̒̔̽ͥ͆̑̿,̘͇͙͋͛͗̌ͧ ͈̼̯͈̣̼͔͂̎ͮa̗̪̗̗̭͚͓̫͂ͨ́ͭ̍ͩͧn̻̭̺̥͍͊͛ͭ̉́d̦̗̙̗ͣ͊̎̉́ ̮̘̘̼̦̟̇͋̿ͭͤp̣̻̾ͩ̃r͍͍̹̝̍̇͂͗̉ͬỏ̯m̩̠̠͇̘̃̓̋ͩͥi̳͇̪͌ͪ́͛͊͌ͭ̚s̖̝̦͎̤̥ͧͫ̽ĕ̞̟̟͕͗̌̅ͣ̈́ͅd͔͇̞̼͔ͦ̿̈ͣ ̞̘̖̫̠̋ͫ̈̚a̤͔͉̙ͦ̍ͪ ͍̞͎̙̣͈̰̓ͧ͆ͭ̓p̣̼̟̫͓̺ͦ͐͊͆̓̃͂l̹̭̱̳̹̩̃̊͛̓ͪ̃̋̚a̝͕̪͕̫̹̪̹ͭ͋̾ͫ̔͗̓ͣc͎͉̰̻͈̑ͪ͌́ͅẽ̮̜͓͓͓͔̣͐ ̙̜̭̒̊͆̑͗i̺̹̺̯͔̒̄͊́ͮ́n͎̜̣̖͎̺ͫ̽̆ͅ ̹̹̙ͨ̃E̝͉͗͋́͊̆l͍͈͔̙̟̰̓̓̎̒̒ͫ͌ͦy̳̘͓͍̍͌͋̅̇͒̽̆ͮs͍̰̹̥̯̾ͅi̩̹̤̫͓͐u͈͕̤͙̠̮̲̮̓͛m̟̜̓̾̒ͣͫ,“ the rider gripping the hilt of their sword.

“What are you talking about? I can’t understand you!” You said to the rider, standing resolutely with the horse grazing on the dry grass beside him.

“Õ̜̻̍r͚̺̪̹̱̗ͩ̅́̓̓ͤ̿͑ ̮͚̖͕̻͎̰̱̒̏ͭ͋ͯͪ͑p̯̠̓̓̃̑̏͑̋e͍̤̙͚̳͔̽ͥͣ̐͗ͤ̐ͣ̚r̘͕̆͌̆͊̓i̠̜͇̭̾̽̐͆ͮ͐̽s͔͖͓̖͓̘͍̰̈́h͉͚͈̥̰ͤ͛ͤ̑̔,̠͈͉̟̠͈͎ͯ͂̄ͤͅ ͖̣̰̠̈ͮͦ̓͆͗a͉̼̲̬̣͚̺̒ͪ͂ͧ̒̓̔̎ͅn̦͉͊̎d̼̼̗͉͇ͭͯͪ̈́̆ͨ ̘͇͇̥̪̮̥̟ͪ̾b̹͔̀͗̒ͦͩ͒͊̽ͣr̦̤̺̐͐͋ͯḯ̤̜̯̯͂̊͆ṋ͈̘̬͕͕̉̉̓ͣ͐ͤ͐̈́ĝ͙̳̰̳̲͔ͧ̉ͪ ̪͎̙ͮg̖̻̲̱̘ͮ̍͋͋l̰͚ͦ̄ͩͤ̀͆ō͚͕͎̘̙̿̆̒̇̾ͩ̚ŕ̟̗̺y̘͉̗͓ͣͣ̒ͤ̅͑ ̺̣̫̌̾͂̄̿̉ͬ̾͗t̬̱ͪ̈ọ͇̰͖̓̂̈́ ͔͆̃y̦̘̥̎̓ͤo̙̟̩͍ͮͩ͛̓̏ͬ̋̽ͣu̟͉̬͍̹͖̬̻̩͂r̲̩̗̲͊̿͗̊ ̞̹̤̰̱̿͋̾̋̚a͓͓̲̼̼ͥͫn͍͓̩͔̞̹̱̹̳ͦͭ̇̓ͣͮ̑̅c̗̖̥̠͕͍͇ͪ̂̄̂̏e̲̱͍͔̮̻̰ͬ̉̇ͯ̀s̗̒ͬt͍̣̪͖͈̝̒̍͐̊̄̑ȏ͓̦̞͔̳̜̘̤͗͌ͣͭͩ͆͂r̻̟̥̯͔̮͐͗ͪ̓̐̽ͫͅͅs̺̣̾̂̔̃́,” the voice said, as loud as the thunder overhead.

“This is a dream,” you say, pinching yourself repeatedly in the arm so hard the skin turns red and burns.

“T̺̪͇̟͈͈̘̲̆̔͑̈́̒̇̽̚h͎̲ͥ̀̀e̻͔͎̖̠̪̊̂̉̊͑ ̦̣̣͎̘̭̯̘ͤ́͌̇̆̾c͙̦͖̠̻͂̂̆h͍̮̳̆́ͩͦo͙͈̠͈̱̺̿̽i͚͍̻̼͐ͩ̆͛ͣ̊͌c͕̥̐͒̈ͩ̇ͬ̌ĕ͙͈̟̣̮̐̔͆ ̮ͤ͒̆̏̐̿ͫͪo̤͕̥̘̟͉͉͂̂͛ͨ͛͐ͩ̒ͅf̭̣͎͙̦͑ͫ̅̒ͪ͗ͮ̇ ͕̦̻͈͈̈́v̫̬̘̪ͤ̑̚i̠̭̫̥̪̖͓̓̀c̮̺̮̞̜̳͋̎̇t͚̿ͨͫ̌͊o̤̦̲̞̱̰̯̰ͬr̩̩͙̣̗̘͖͌̎̉̀y̖̙̼̫̰͔͗͛͆̈̊̃ ̥̗̪ͮ̇ͬ̔ͨ͒̀o̖̯͍̲̗̍̈r͖̣̖̦͕̬͖̠ͬͦͧ̍ͦ͌̚ ͍̘̄̾́ͦ̾d̲̻͍͈̪̏̾̀̽ͥ̃͋e̺͎͙̰̻̼͌̃ͦͦͥ͒ͅâ͉̤͈̣̮̟̥͔̭͗͑t̰ͬ̐͑ͫ̿̂̋ḧ̬̟̘͈̹́ͦͬ ̣̦̝̭̋͂̓̐̿̒i̻̟͓̩̿̌̄̄ͤ̔̽̽̔s̠̯͚̙͛̌̂̋́ͥ̋͋̃ ̗̘ͯ̉̑̄̎̿̋ͬ͆y̯̱̖̗̯ͫ̓͌̑o̙̱̪͈̥̮̝͂͗ͧ̃̉ǘ̲̯ͥ̽̓̎̚ȓ̙̩̯̗̎ͩ̾ͨ̿̈́ͅs̙̳͍̈ͪ̆̆͆̽ͥ̍̚,” the voice said.

“This has to be a dream,” you shout, wide eyed at the rider.

“N̦̺͇̯̮̪̝͈̘̓̓̎ä͉͖́ͤ͋͋̇y̪ͥ,” scoffingly boomed the voice. The rider unsheathes his sword and holds it aloft, pointed at the clouds as if to threaten them.

“What the fu―” was all you could say before the blinding flash of light and clap of thunder overtook you.