#forgedfromblacksand

forgedfromblacksand

Pitch walked along the roof tops of a small town, watching his nightmares spread fear to the children. But for the whole night it felt like someone or something was following him, “You know you should really find another hobby, stalking someone is not a healthy activity" the nightmare king snickered as he pet one of his nightmares.

He was now out of most of the alcohols he put in his Gargle Blasters.

Was he drunk? Hard to tell. He could still count his fingers, he could still cross his eyes (involuntarily), and he could still walk in a straight line.

Maybe showing hospitality would get them off the ship.

The Nightmare King paced from the furthest reaches of a dark tunnel to the deep core of his lair and then back again to the surface of the Earth to watch as moonbeams cast themselves upon the land each night to find him. It was a long process to calm his rushing thoughts, and it wasn't working. Each step within the catacombs of Earth's darkest depths made the fearlings giddy, their voices hissing in whispers waiting for their master to speak.

As he ventured deeper into his home, Pitch felt the ache of his hidden arm pressurize beneath his cloak, and holding a firm grasp on the injury was not dulling the pulsating torture he felt. Finally, after many nights of excruciatingly slow walking, Pitch finally collapsed in the center of his globe room panting.

Pitch's flesh coloured hand laid out from underneath his cloak now, exposed to the fearlings swarming him. The pale shade that was now visible disgusted Pitch, but he couldn't be bothered to hide the scar any longer. He had to find a way to cure himself of this dreadful wound.

Mother Nature shifted in her hollow, looking out into the clearing by her oak tree. It was night and dark, the tree's blocking the moon and stars. And normally there was no discontent with this.

But tonight something felt off.