Download this song before reading the story.

Every man, woman and child in Amia has this dream as well. Respond to it as you see fit.

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You dream.

A closed book lies before you, clouded in a pillow of black fog. Its cover is dusty yet firm; a layer of white powder all but obscures the word "Amia" on the leather-bound cover. As your vision draws closer to the book, it slowly opens with the crinkle of old pages. The dust falls from the book and into the black fog, disappearing entirely. As you look, the pages begin to flip rapidly, flipflipflipflipflip until suddenly, they stop.

The page before you begins with a picture of a city. Its spires reach up toward Heaven in a glorious display of wealth, of power, of prestige. The people below seem content; an oasis in the desert, as the streets are made of sand. Children play on the streets, men and women buy wares from the rows of merchants lining the walls, bards sing the songs of legendary heroes with their many-assorted instruments, city officials cry out the daily news and the hustly & bustle gives the city a thriving, pulsating feel, as though it were alive. Yet, you cannot see the words below the picture. They appear blurred, incomprehensible, as though you were not meant to see what was written there.

The page turns.

Another picture, with text below it. A cloud has formed over the city; the sky has begun to bleed. People are running from something, and large, dark figures move in the shadows and crawl their way from the earth. Tables are overturned, children are scooped up by their mothers. Portals begin to open; gates rimmed in red and black, burning like fire.

Suddenly, you are catapulted into the scene as the picture begins to move. Women and children are screaming as the city guards draw their swords and shields, running towards the Temple. A young half-drow woman runs by, helping people to hurry through a portal leading to the Prime. The ground shakes, people fall to their knees, their hands buried underneath the sand. The city bells toll for help, but none is coming. They are alone in this conflict, a battle that will be lost before it began.

The triumphant yells of the damned fill the air as devils march upon the city, pouring through their portals wreathed in flame. In their hands they carry weapons, in their eyes they carry victory. They overpower the guards and slaughter them; they impale their bodies upon pikes for all the city to see. Those unfortunate enough not to reach the portal before it closed are trapped in the realm of the Damned, they run and hide. They are alone, with no one to save them.

A horned being emerges from the last of the portals, his teeth gnarled in a grin. His tail swishes back and forth in pleasure as he looks around at the vanquished city. A pitchfork in his hand, he strides toward the conquered Temple and pushes open the doors. He turns upon reaching the steps and raises his weapon. The devils raise theirs and release their feral cry.

Your vision suddenly turns and rushes out the doors, outside the city and into the desert beyond. The sky has turned red, the air filled with blood. Creatures battle for their lives as the Abyss takes them, Stingers falling under the might of terrifying, spider-like creatures and demons from the lower planes. Only a single dragon manages to fend them away, and he retreats into a corner of the Wastes, content to wait until the opportunity arises to reclaim what was once his. The demons roam across the land until all its creatures are dead and the sand is stained with blood.

Time passes. Sand blows across the bodies until they disappear, the creatures move rapidly as everything accelerates, as though this period is irrelevant. Dark spires are built in the city; guards and wards are posted, devilish beings are set up to man the Temple and streets. The righteous are tortured day by day, the wicked rewarded for their devious treachery. Corruption reaches to the four corners of the city until all are consumed by it.

Finally, time slows. Another day passes in the Damned City. Suddenly, a Heavenly cry fills the air. Light pours through the veil of red and tears it. Your vision shifts: Above, a being of pure white light hovers in the air, her golden-tinged skin gleaming from the inner righteousness she exhibits. In both hands is a greatsword held at an angle; her body is covered in metallic armor overlaid with silk, which flows as though gently blown by the wind. Her eyes are nothing but chasms of light, her voice like a chorus of angels. A face turned to anger burns with righteous fury and calls out into the burning skies:

The curse will be lifted!
Damnation undone.
Heaven's wrath you are gifted
And my ire you have won.

The call of the righteous
Now reaches my ears.
Your kind will be repaid
A tear for every tear!

As she finishes these words, rifts begin to open in the skies, portals rimmed with gold and silver. The call of the Heaven-born rings out as angels descend from on high like eagles with their talons outstretched, their wings bent back, light flowing down into the pock-marked sand with the illumination of truth. The Solar remains, her face lifted skyward, her sword held high in one hand and her wings outspread in full display.

The cries of Heaven and the screams of Hell fill the air as the vision retreats into memory. The edges of the book become apparent and as you look, the movements turn solid and freeze, becoming a picture once more. You see, one last time, before the pages close, a vision of angels descending to earth, the cries of the righteous on their lips as they avenge those wronged by Hell.

Have that already

Nice tale! Well done *Claps hands*

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"People that talk in metaphors ought to shampoo my crotch." - Jack Nicholson.