There is always a storm in this place. The sky, as with everything else here, bends to a single will, a single voice. Dark, swirling masses of clouds spin in a constant vortex above the central spires of the Watch, as if a hurricane had been set upon a plate of glass in the sky. Lighting laces the storm from horizon to horizon. At times the thunderheads dance violently across the countryside on deadly electrical legs, cutting deep scars in the ground. Or the landscape is ravaged by treacherous winds that cut like phantom blades through anything not strong enough to stand against them. And the rain. Furious at times, lasting days or weeks, pounds the ground into submission, shifting and reshaping it as it will. But the land heals.
This is not a place for the timid, or the merely curious. This is a place of blinding light and inconceivable darkness, of elation, and soul-rending pain, clarity and confusion, dreams and failures.
This is the soul of a man.
Built over several lifetimes, the land here centers on a single feature that links the ground with the skies. The Watch. Like a living entity, it stretches upward from the center of a fractal maze work of stone and vines. Almost organic in form, it has grown and changed countless times in response to it's creators song. The oldest sections are reminiscent of traditional castles of centuries past. Stone spires, buttresses, and walls rise far above the ground. But the newer additions are more disturbing in form. Like roots reaching up from the heart of this land, clutching at the stone like the hands of the dead, holding it in a death grip as if to regain life from it. Gnarled and twisted by years of pain, they stand as monuments to the cause of their creation, or in defiance of it. Large areas have been blasted away by lightning strikes, revealing the structure beneath. Like limbs with the skin and muscle torn away, exposing the bone to view. It's allure is difficult to fathom, like the need to watch a tragic event. But it reaches deeper than the surface, it sings to the darker places of the psyche, stirring feelings many try to restrain, or deny. Overall, the effect of it is one of seductive beauty, and one can't help but to stare in awe.
It isn't known if anyone other than it's architect has ever seen the interior of the Watch since very few have ever braved the maze that encircles it. It's a common belief that there are still souls who are hopelessly lost in it, wandering aimlessly, drawn here to this event horizon. They've become almost like shadows moving without purpose across the stone walls. The tenant, the singer, is sometimes seen wandering through the maze. One has to wonder if he ever comes face to face with the lost ones.
The surrounding countryside is incredible, if unlikely. The mix of flora and fauna would be found nowhere other than a place like this. Groves of redwood forests standing next to rain forests, species of flowers growing in places they could never be cultivated in the real world. Not to mention the life forms that don't exist anywhere outside the archives of human mythology. Between the vast array of plant life, the sometimes unnerving animal life, the bizarre rock formations and the breathtakingly impossible landscape, this is truly a place to behold with wonder.
There are times when you can see the ravens in vast numbers flocking around the Watch, the spiritual messengers of the tenant, the shape shifters. They seem immune to the storms that the Watch gives birth to, even playful in the maelstroms. Their glossy black forms fit in well with the deep inky shadows so prevalent in the towering construct. In fact, it isn't uncommon to see creatures of many kinds in the sky around the Watch. This is a place true to it's creator's imagination. There are times when the air thunders with the sound of beating wings from massive flocks of Pegasus, griffins, or dragons. Fantasy is given life here, and at times those visions make their way to the real world.
This is not just a dark place though. In fact, there is light here in abundance. Only when the man in the Watch is in pain does the sky blacken ominously. During those times, the whole land trembles. For the most part the clouds allow light to stream through to the ground in long gleaming shafts. They paint brightly lit, constantly shifting patterns across the landscape, and ignite the clouds with silver-gold linings. The mist, always prevalent high in the air, breaks the beams into prismatic displays casting multiple rainbows in all directions.
But it's during the hours of sleep that this place casts it's most deadly shadows. Without his control over this world, it's most sinister denizens appear and run freely. Called up from lifetimes of pain, years of hiding in the darkness alone, they materialize. Satin black, eyes burning red with a bloody hatred, anger, rage, they sweep overland unhindered. Dancing to the almost psychotic rhythms of a child in pain, they run like a rabid wave.
The nightmares.
Like draft horses molded from the velvety black of the deepest emptiness, they are a frightening testimony to childhood's agony. Their breath comes in short, tortured gasps. Hot, filled with an undefinable hunger,...something always unfilled, always desperately needed. Nothing stands against them here, nothing can. They cut through the landscape like wildfire, destroying everything unfortunate enough to be in their path. Manes flying wildly in the night winds, like shredded sails on a doomed ship. The ground shudders violently as they move.
Their sharp hooves cut deeply into the ground, leaving crescent shaped gouges that slowly fill with his blood. They scream with a voice like a thousand tortured souls.
They run relentlessly through his dreams. To look into the eyes of one of these creatures is to find oneself immersed in a world of paranoia. There you'll find the wanton destruction of sanity, what should have been, but never was. Fear and desperation, hopelessness on a scale distorted by the eyes of a child. They leave nothing but regret in their wake. Still, for all their ferocity, they have been silenced by the softest of touches. A gentle kiss and they disintegrate like ashes in the wind. Powerless in the face of that which they've never known, they are nothing more than ineffectual phantoms.
Morning light reveals the scars of their passing and the damage is quickly repaired for another day. But the scars always remain.
Most times the dreamer is seen only as a dark silhouette back lit in the upper expanses of the Watch.
He drifts silently through the miles of dimly lit halls, passage ways, and rooms throughout the Watch. Within the twisted walls of what at times must be a prison, there is no time. Actually, physical laws apply only partially anywhere in the land, but it's in the Watch itself that these laws are as changeable as the weather. He walks the entire length of his ancient existence in the span of a single corridor. There is an ancient magic about this place, a mystique few miss.
Yet it taunts him, for he is not it's master. It expresses itself regardless of his attempts to restrain it. It's a part of his spirit that won't tolerate denial, and refuses to be ignored.
Many are compelled to come here, for whatever reason. But he knows, as he has always known, that only one will stay. And that one will change the face of this place for the better. She will be the one who finally puts the nightmares to rest, who keeps the storms from damaging this place, and who will bring his restless wanderings to a welcome end.
This place has always been, and it will always be. Storms will paint the skies, shadows will fall, long and dark, but it will change,...so he waits.