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Fantasy Artwork Gallery A river of traffic, flowing along tracks of pavement, goes as far as you can seen. Noise of construction fills the air, filling your head with a pounding sensation, as though your mind is screaming to explode. The horns begin to blow, your fellow derelicts decide more noise is the answer. Static spills from the radio, a child cries, a distant dog barks. This is the reality you wake to daily, you wish you could put your head down upon the wheel and dream of another place. A woman on the sidewalk screams in terror. Her bag drops, its contents spilling across the walkway, as she points upward. You crane your neck trying to see out the windshield at what frightens her. People ahead of you are getting out of their cars, some of running toward nearby buildings, others staring in awe. You open the door, a new sound assaults your ears: not construction, people, or engines, but a sound reminding you of flapping. You look toward the point others are staring at, the sun glares in your eyes threatening to blind you. You shield your eyes with your hand and are rewarded with a the sight which frightened the others. Terror fills you lungs like water, clenches at your heart like a fist, and weighs down your legs as if they were stone. Your mind wars with the terror, "This can't be real," says your mind but the terror tells you it's true. You want to flee but fear roots you to the ground. The noise grows stronger. A dragon, crimson scales glistening in the sun like liquid fire, ivory horns gleaming, and teeth glinting like steel, flies through the air ahead of you. Its great wings thrust down sending air away from it blowing around garbage, sending people to the ground in its wake. With the sound like cracking stone fire escapes its mouth, a stream of flaming destruction, striking a car. The car explodes, you are hit with the realization that the dragon is coming your way. The fear of something distant holding you there is overcome by the fear of something coming your way. You turn to run but are confronted with yet another impossible sight. Advancing through the street is an army of corpses, weaving their way through the sea of cars, adding any they find to their ranks. You stare, appalled as the stench of death reaches you, as the flesh of the victims fall from their bodies when they rise to join the horde. Behind them, atop a truck, stands a person cloaked in black robes. No face can be seen beneath the shadows of its hood, an eerie light surrounds its hands. With a cackle it raises a hand and the army of undead break into a charge. Closing your eyes you wait for the end. You wonder what will happen to you, join the undead or become victim to the dragon. The sound of thunder and the scent of burning flesh force your eyes open. All that remains of the first line of zombies is ash, the black figure glares toward a point to the side. You turn as the dragon unleashes a roar, shattering nearby glass and leaving your ears ringing, to see it's looking in the same direction. A figure stands on a low building. Dressed in robes which gleam like snow he clutches a staff, a plain wooden one with a crystal held in a golden crescent upon the top, in his hands. Sunlight gleams from his clothing and from the crystal, making him a contrast to the black figure. Wind blows through his brown hair, his eyes are the deep green color of a forest. Raising his staff, he cries out in a language you don't recognize. A sensation of energy washes over you as he yells and he points his staff at the dragon. As the last syllable passes his lips green energy lances out from the top of the staff. It strikes the dragon in the chest, from there green tendrils reach out for its limbs. Like a snake it coils around the beast as it struggles, it lets out a scream of anguish. Finally the tendrils grasp its wings, pulling them against its back, and the dragon falls to the ground. The ground shakes as dust spreads outward from the impact, the great wurm struggles futilely for a few seconds before giving up with a low growl. With a scream of wrath the black-robed figure lifts his hands as darkness spills from between his fingers like sand. Thrusting his arms outward the darkness coils out toward the figure in white. The white-robed mage lifts his staff, light spills from its form and lances out at the incoming darkness. The energies meet, the sound of an inferno spills through the street as the to struggle to gain dominance. The enregies contort and twist around each other looking for a weak point from which it may slip through. The white mage falls to one knee, though still he holds his staff high. The darkness lunges forward, gaining precious inches toward its goal. The necromancer cackles as his energy gains more ground. You hear a sound from behind and turn to look. A wave of nausia hits you as the smell of rot hits you. You recoil in terror, backing up against a wall, as the undead creature raises a rusted sword. You try to scream as the sword reaches its peak but no sound emerges. As the sword begins its journey downward the world falls to slow motion. Undead eyes glint with an unholy pleasure, then to terror. In a window you see the reflection of the necromancer being swallowed by light, the white mage collapsing with exhaustion. The zombie begins to crumble, but the sword is moving too fast. You are going to die. You realize this, your mind aches with thought as you try to piece together why. You can't die, it can't really be happening, none of this can be real. The sword has nearly reached you, your mouth screams with terror, your mind with reason. This isn't real, screams your mind, it's all a dream, someone is dreaming... You open your eyes and look around. You stand there, leaning against a wall, watching as people get up off the ground. Your fingers bleed from clutching the sharp brick of the wall behind you. Ahead you can see your car, nearby a woman shakily picks up her spilled groceries. People get back into their cars, confused, and continue to wait for trafic to move. Across the street you see a familiar face. Sitting on a bench, his eyes closed sits a man with a book upon his lap. Dressed in a white shirt and a pair of light pants sits a man with brown hair and green eyes. He opens his eyes with a yawn and stands, picking up his book. From the distance you barely make out the outline of a dragon on the cover. He stands and picks up a plain wooden staff, one with a crystal contained in a golden crescent, from behind the bench. Looking in your direction he and smiles at you, and walks off from view. You remove yourself from the wall and return to your car. There you sit, your mind spinning with conflicting thoughts, as you wait among the river of trafic for it to continue its progress. |