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Might be my first time sharing some of my actual work here. Below is a sort of short story written for the backstory to my worldbuilding, feel free to read it.
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As you drift into a quiet slumber under the dark sky, you feel an unusual warmth before waking up in a meadow.
You look around in confusion and see hooded figures sculpting shapes out of mounds of clay.
Each one is working on something different, some small, some large, but all with a clear shape that becomes recognizable as they finish and paint them.
A rabbit, a snake, a bear, and even animals you have never seen before, shapes that you think defy reason, and colors you have never seen.
They all begin to wander the meadow, each interacting with its environment in its own way, before you see some begin attacking others.
Larger animals eat the small; small animals form packs.
Life takes on roles, as despite the seeming chaos of it all, you feel a sense of planned order.
But then one of the hooded figures begins to sculpt something with the shape of a human, painted using scraps of clay from the figures broken in the meadow.
The other hooded figures don't seem to notice, too focused on making their new sculptures.
The unusual humanoid enters the meadow and begins to slaughter anything in its path.
Unlike the seeming chaos, this feels unplanned, unusual, unnatural, and uncontrollable.
True chaos that was not supposed to enter the meadow.
Instead of eating the remains of its prey, it begins to collect the broken pieces, adding to its already unusual form, and hoarding the remainder in a pile.
The other figures notice that something is wrong, but it is too late; the figure has added so much to itself that it resembles a towering beast.
It no longer resembles a human, it no longer sounds like a human, and it roars from the top of its pile in a language you do not understand, but with a meaning that feels like a command.
On the top of this beast's head rests a crown made from the remnants of what was in the meadow; the colors of everything it added to itself had stained it black.
The meadow becomes still, a mockery of order built on fear and chaos, waiting for the next tragedy to happen.
As the sky darkens, a heavy rain begins to pour from the clouds in an attempt to melt the clay monstrosity.
But the creator, the hooded figure, protects it with a shelter built from its hoard.
A sense of anger fills the clouds before the shimmering form of a lion descends.
It takes the clay used to craft and creates a knight, giving it a sword with a color only he can produce.
The knight marches forward, towards the beast of darkness, a fight erupting for the order of the meadow.
As the sword plunges into the darkness, a warm light flashes.
You wake up in a sweat, the cryptic dream burned into your head like a vision.
A single phrase is stuck in your mind whenever you think about the vision.
The First King, The Black Dragon
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English
