Tyrant Dreams
A target, a victim, kin.
Remind the creature of its place.
Swoop, dive, snap, hiss.
Relish in its fear, but do not linger.
It is wise to take cover. To flee. To cower and hope.
They cannot rule what they cannot find.
But that’s a lie.
Even now, in the throws of nightmares eons long, their power can be felt.
Returning, growing, reaching out; a gnashing of teeth in the long empty void.
The basilisks, with their mottled hides and gleaming eyes, are waking.
Crawling from the earth, their talons scar the land, their horns rake the trees.
Their return is but the first.
Open one eye, then the other.
Stretch the wings. pop the neck. Unhinge the jaw and reattach.
This may be the last free hunt.
Block out the dull pain, the nagging thoughts, whispers of humility.
Take flight, cut the sky, shred flesh, and retreat.
Beasts, whose footfalls have not been felt for many revolutions, crawl from their tombs; from their chambers of slumber. But their power pales in the face of the coming storm.