The Wolfpacks That Prowl the Forest

Ageless mesas and decaying ruins litter the Dreamlands like corpses on a battlefield, a vile tapestry of its terrible history steeped in the blood and madness that infects the realm. None know this more intimately than the Lost Prophet, The One That Walks Through Dreams. The ancient dread and cunning Lord of the Ten Thousand Isles, and one of the few abominable deities that had shunned the petty conflicts of their peers... that is, until now. Now, the Lost Prophet has deemed it a fine time to get involved with the fever pitch of violence that has gripped the world, and he had sent the call out; From his ruinous citadel on the very edges of the Nightmare Halls, his carrion birds carried his voice to the shimmering coast of the Moonlit Isles, to the sun-scorched Endless Plains, to even the forbidden and vast Midnight Desert of the furthest south. With a terrifying vigour, his call has been heeded, and his allies gather for him at the broken spires of Uvkelcta, their own thralls and soldiery amassing with the fanatics that had pledged their lives for their Antlered God. These lesser deities, that had arrived at the call of the Lost Prophet, follow him with little question; for where the Prophet goes, death stalks and follows on the swiftest of wings. But whose death they have their sight on, is something that only the Lost Prophet can decide...

The Pact of the One Who Walks Through Dreams
His voice, soft and sweet like honey, rang out clearly through those vast and ruined halls, keeping the rapt attention of those that had gathered before him. Their eyes followed his swaying movements, watching every gesture, every little move, as he wove his plan out before them. It was a simple plan, or so he convinced them - for truthfully, nothing is as simple when the Lost Prophet is involved. He proposed to them, in sugared and laden terms, of an alliance, a pact of their eyes and blood; combining their worshippers, their thralls, their strengths, to bring a semblance of order and composure to begin with, before they moved on to grander schemes. The way he wove those words, the Gods, despite themselves, found themselves believing him. They drunk in his words, feeling drowsy under the unblinking stare of his crimson eyes, lapping up everything he said to them in dulcet tones. He spoke to them of how they had suffered beneath the yoke of humanity, of how the deities like the corpse bitch Illuiankia, the pretentious and uncaring ones, had torn them down time and time again. It was like a dream, as he sunk his hooks deeper into their minds; telling them a vision of a pact that bring them what they deserved, of how they would sleep like kings. Of how they would finally mount their rightful places within the Dreamlands. Soft fingers danced across their skin, their fur, feathers, as he lavished his praise and tribulations upon them for heeding his call, whispering the promises he gave them. By the end of it, as the last God drifted into the victorious sleep of the Lost Prophet, they stood by him. They threw everything behind him. And, with this, he would finally get what he desired... With the Pact at his side, he would get the ultimate pleasure of killing the whore who wronged him. He would get Illuiankia's head...

The Endless Domination of Nightmares
Viscous, sharp laughter stung their ears, their eyes looking on in horror. Some backed away, threats and curses dying in their throats, while others stood rooted to the spot, too scared to even move. Vile, burning black Ichor dripped from his It's mouth as The Lost Prophet It spoke to them, with a voice like a broken hiss of malevolence. It crawled towards them on twisted limbs, Ichor drenched skin speckled with melted stars, eyes little more than swirling, violent pools of burnt red tar. It laughed as it spoke to them, calling upon them to join It within the embrace of the Nightmare Halls. To give in to it's draw, and feast upon it's power. To give in, much like It had centuries ago, to the once lost and forgotten powers that had been the genesis of the Dreamlands a forgotten epoch ago. A shiver went through them, as It approached with It's swaying, poised movements, as the one who had call them to Uvkelcta dragged Ichor stained tendrils through their fur, across their skin. They felt the encroaching darkness, from that warped and crooked body, from the real face of The Lost Prophet It. As vines of Ichor snaked out, lacing It's poisonous and corrupting Ichor around their limbs, the struggle long gone, the disgusting taint of Nightmare infecting them, It couldn't help but laugh. It had finally got It's puppets, trapped once more upon It's strings, dancing and crying to It's tune with broken, sobbing abandon. For by the End, as the never-ending darkness of the Nightmare Halls wrapped around, twisting and warping everything it touched, melting their reality into that of pure Nightmares, there wasn't a single soul amongst the gathered that hadn't fallen as a slave to It's will, forced to follow It wherever It wanted to go. To fight for the creature that stood amongst them, completely unashamed of It's actions. Finally, after all these years, It would finally get what It had wanted for so long. With It’s His domination over the very Nightmare Halls themselves, he would finally rule the Dreamlands, burning them into his image, and from there, reality itself would fall to Him.