In the Temple of Gar the Desecrator

For even now these horrors live within me. I am afraid to sleep but sleep I must, sooner or later, until I wake to the sounds of my own screams. For whenever I sleep, the dream I have is always the same.

In this feverish nightmare, I stand amid a city constructed from gray, hewn stone, an unspeakably long time ago. Its ancient architecture is stark, dominated as it is by pyramid-tipped columns, by pillars supporting massive lintels and by platforms on may levels. Many temples there are, their entrances flanked by monstrous statues, and as lightning shoots through the black, roiling sky overhead the sound of thunder echoes off the dark buildings, and smoke rises from the great firepits and from the braziers flanking their entrances.

I stand atop a flight of steps. The stone before me is red with the blood of the slaves that have just been sacrificed to me. The chanting crowd is composed of creatures like, yet unlike, men and women. I emerge from the niche that I have occupied for a time so long as to be meaningless in modern terms, my limbs still stiff after having been so recently awakened. I turn and face the altar on which my intended lies, prostrate, her lush, ripe body inviting and ready. I ascend the altar to mount her, my phallus hard, erect and ready. I enter her sex, knowing that upon the consummation of our union I shall rule this world for a thousand years, while the offspring of our union will consume it for a thousand more.

Then I wake, the sheets of my bed invariably soaked with my spilled seed, and the final image of that hellish dream still before me: the face of my ancient arch-enemy, casting his spell to numb my rod, thus preventing me from gaining release and completing that final act which will ensure my dominion over this world of wretched mortals. The same face, somehow, as that of the acolyte who rode my rod so skillfully during the final moments of that accursed ritual in that demonic hall, softly uttering her enchantments all the while so as to withhold that last, vital bit of life force from her mortal enemy and thus gain victory over him once more.

I know not how, but some of the life that was taken from me to unleash a slumbering demon and, through frightful spells or dark magic, finally returned to me, must have infused me with some of the demon's memories as well. At least I hope this to be the case, because the alternative is too terrible a horror to even contemplate.

For I remember. I am Angt'ush Klat-Gar'chak, the one referred to by my worshippers as Gar, ruler of the underworld and wielder of darkness, and I will feed upon this, the physical realm, for a thousand years once my return to flesh is complete. This is certain. I will vanquish my arch-enemy and this will come to pass.

Shiver, mortals. I hunger. And I will return.