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Description
                                     Nighmara's Cast

     A thick fog drifts over the ground beneath a gibbous moon, stirred by the passing of a tall, dark shape. Hooded and cloaked the figure slips through the rough, cobbled streets with an unnatural ease and beguiling speed. Cloth billows, and shadows follow the hasty figure as it leaves behind the depth of the city and the dying bustle of market day.

     At the far edge of town beneath the clawing limbs of Darkmire Woods rises a once-grand and noble home. A high wrought-iron fence encircles the lonely residence. Its rusted gate hangs twisted on its hinges as though some force beyond man has had its way with it. A 'No-Trespassing' sign, long forgotten, is obscured by tangled vines and overgrown brush. The notice is without consequence for none of the townsfolk stray anywhere near the dilapidated haunt.

     The windows are shrouded, their shades drawn like closed eyelids. The house appears silent, empty, and lifeless, except for one lone window. A hint of candlelight glows from its sill, peering out into the depths of darkness, searching for its master. An approach ripples past the porch, and the wax sentinel flickers brightly, joyous at evil's return. The door slams inward at the emergence of an out-stretched hand.

     In the parlor, the woman throws back her hood, releasing a cascade of golden curls to brush against her ivory shoulders. She is beauty unbound. Finely chiseled features shape her teardrop face, and skin as white as porcelain shimmers with an unearthly paleness. Graceful and exquisite, her façade veils her true nature. Nighmara clasps the pulsing amulet nested just above her ruffled bodice, the material stretched tight against her full breasts. Cradling the glowing red stone, she smiles.

     Her fingers splay wide, and her pouty, blood-red lips mutter an incantation. A cauldron bursts into existence, its surface stirred with a roiling boil even though no flames dance beneath the cast-iron legs.

     Palming the necklace, her opposite hand caresses the treasure with a loving touch, drawing strength from its beating heart. Varying shades of inky smog swirl from the gem and streak toward the ceiling. Relishing their release, the ghostly vapors dance in a spinning vortex.

     She searches the mists, snatching the worst from the writhing mass, feeling their pain, savoring their emotions.

     "Come hither, Jealousy." Bolting towards her welcome, it is a well told lie to besmirch the innocent and ruin a reputation.

     "Fly to me, Fear." Streaking to her beckoning fingers, it is the vicious stroke of a whip lashing the hunched shoulders of an errant slave.

     "Sweet Degradation, heed my call." Complying with the command, it is the crying child, bought and sold, led away by a lecherous hand.

     She tosses these tendrils of murky cloud into her menacing stew, and extends a finger to sketch small circles in the air.  The brewing concoction mimics the action, churning in a whirlpool under her direction.

     Nighmara draws a long, luscious sigh in anticipation, for the ingredients found this market day were bountiful. During her daily sojourns, she has grown accustomed to the looks of disdain. She suffers the infamy for one purpose only, to acquire the truth residing in their souls. Beneath their righteous upturned noses, she recognizes the evil that lurks deep within. She trails them, watches them, waits for the ugliness they try to mask. She looks for those brief glimpses of soul, displayed but for a moment. She understands how to wield this hidden rot, how to trap it, save it in its elemental form and utilize it for her own purpose.

     Turning from her musing, she strokes the jewel, forcing it to regurgitate the last of its foul breath. She watches in eagerness as the wisps of evil join their brethren and swirl about the room in dance. Closing her eyes she senses the corruption and wallows in its wickedness.

     Her fingers clasp the quintessence of thievery. The memory of a weighted scale is flung into her potion. It was meant to steal the meager earnings of a peasant buying a bit of food to feed his family.

     Her fingers seize the essence of betrayal, a whorl of recollection of marriage vows ignored, a secret tryst held in the backroom of the Braken Bush Inn. It too is tossed into the brew.

     Her fingers clutch death, a rare ingredient indeed. Delight sparkles in her deep blue eyes, for her potion tonight overflows with darkness. She embraces death's smoldering haze with tenderness, her tongue darting into the vaporous reminiscence, tasting the lingering flavor of blood, rich and coppery.

     She was an onlooker to the fatal argument; her thoughts dwell on the knife's deep plunge. She closes her eyes and lets her mind drift to the crimson splatters, so stark against the paving stones.

     With a heady sigh, she casts the malevolence into her bubbling pot. This last component triggers the mixture to churn and spit, boiling over the pot's lip in an oozing slick. The air turns noxious, a putrid smell clinging to the room.

     With her palm poised above the concoction, she lets her hand slowly travel in broad circles through the escaping vapor. With a sharp report, the mixture violently coalesces, sinking back into the depths of the cauldron.

     A dulcet chuckle belies the reality of horror.  "Come my pretties, it is time to travel to the winds."

     At her word, specters rise from the bottom of the pot, ugly and hideous as the thoughts and actions that created them. Severed heads, dripping blood, float into view, followed by their animated bodies, searching for what was lost. Six-eyed monsters with gnashing fangs and curled horns climb into the air. A multitude of beasts and legends soars about the room. Apparitions parade amongst the gathering minions, clutching their instruments of death, noose and dagger, club and arrow.  Her host is ethereal, yet all too real.

     Striding to the windows, the sorceress throws open the shutters, casting her nightmares into the recesses of the darkest hour. Her creation is dependent upon man's iniquity, for without it the world would rest in blissful slumber. However, she doesn't mourn the departure of her handiwork; she knows that man's mendacity is boundless, and an infinite harvest will always await.

     "That which lurks deepest in their hearts, return to the realm from which you came."
Nighmara's grin grows vicious knowing that guilty and innocent will suffer alike. She throws her arms wide in exultation. "Wake them. Haunt them. Grant them no peace."

Description
                                     Nighmara's Cast

     A thick fog drifts over the ground beneath a gibbous moon, stirred by the passing of a tall, dark shape. Hooded and cloaked the figure slips through the rough, cobbled streets with an unnatural ease and beguiling speed. Cloth billows, and shadows follow the hasty figure as it leaves behind the depth of the city and the dying bustle of market day.

     At the far edge of town beneath the clawing limbs of Darkmire Woods rises a once-grand and noble home. A high wrought-iron fence encircles the lonely residence. Its rusted gate hangs twisted on its hinges as though some force beyond man has had its way with it. A 'No-Trespassing' sign, long forgotten, is obscured by tangled vines and overgrown brush. The notice is without consequence for none of the townsfolk stray anywhere near the dilapidated haunt.

     The windows are shrouded, their shades drawn like closed eyelids. The house appears silent, empty, and lifeless, except for one lone window. A hint of candlelight glows from its sill, peering out into the depths of darkness, searching for its master. An approach ripples past the porch, and the wax sentinel flickers brightly, joyous at evil's return. The door slams inward at the emergence of an out-stretched hand.

     In the parlor, the woman throws back her hood, releasing a cascade of golden curls to brush against her ivory shoulders. She is beauty unbound. Finely chiseled features shape her teardrop face, and skin as white as porcelain shimmers with an unearthly paleness. Graceful and exquisite, her façade veils her true nature. Nighmara clasps the pulsing amulet nested just above her ruffled bodice, the material stretched tight against her full breasts. Cradling the glowing red stone, she smiles.

     Her fingers splay wide, and her pouty, blood-red lips mutter an incantation. A cauldron bursts into existence, its surface stirred with a roiling boil even though no flames dance beneath the cast-iron legs.

     Palming the necklace, her opposite hand caresses the treasure with a loving touch, drawing strength from its beating heart. Varying shades of inky smog swirl from the gem and streak toward the ceiling. Relishing their release, the ghostly vapors dance in a spinning vortex.

     She searches the mists, snatching the worst from the writhing mass, feeling their pain, savoring their emotions.

     "Come hither, Jealousy." Bolting towards her welcome, it is a well told lie to besmirch the innocent and ruin a reputation.

     "Fly to me, Fear." Streaking to her beckoning fingers, it is the vicious stroke of a whip lashing the hunched shoulders of an errant slave.

     "Sweet Degradation, heed my call." Complying with the command, it is the crying child, bought and sold, led away by a lecherous hand.

     She tosses these tendrils of murky cloud into her menacing stew, and extends a finger to sketch small circles in the air.  The brewing concoction mimics the action, churning in a whirlpool under her direction.

     Nighmara draws a long, luscious sigh in anticipation, for the ingredients found this market day were bountiful. During her daily sojourns, she has grown accustomed to the looks of disdain. She suffers the infamy for one purpose only, to acquire the truth residing in their souls. Beneath their righteous upturned noses, she recognizes the evil that lurks deep within. She trails them, watches them, waits for the ugliness they try to mask. She looks for those brief glimpses of soul, displayed but for a moment. She understands how to wield this hidden rot, how to trap it, save it in its elemental form and utilize it for her own purpose.

     Turning from her musing, she strokes the jewel, forcing it to regurgitate the last of its foul breath. She watches in eagerness as the wisps of evil join their brethren and swirl about the room in dance. Closing her eyes she senses the corruption and wallows in its wickedness.

     Her fingers clasp the quintessence of thievery. The memory of a weighted scale is flung into her potion. It was meant to steal the meager earnings of a peasant buying a bit of food to feed his family.

     Her fingers seize the essence of betrayal, a whorl of recollection of marriage vows ignored, a secret tryst held in the backroom of the Braken Bush Inn. It too is tossed into the brew.

     Her fingers clutch death, a rare ingredient indeed. Delight sparkles in her deep blue eyes, for her potion tonight overflows with darkness. She embraces death's smoldering haze with tenderness, her tongue darting into the vaporous reminiscence, tasting the lingering flavor of blood, rich and coppery.

     She was an onlooker to the fatal argument; her thoughts dwell on the knife's deep plunge. She closes her eyes and lets her mind drift to the crimson splatters, so stark against the paving stones.

     With a heady sigh, she casts the malevolence into her bubbling pot. This last component triggers the mixture to churn and spit, boiling over the pot's lip in an oozing slick. The air turns noxious, a putrid smell clinging to the room.

     With her palm poised above the concoction, she lets her hand slowly travel in broad circles through the escaping vapor. With a sharp report, the mixture violently coalesces, sinking back into the depths of the cauldron.

     A dulcet chuckle belies the reality of horror.  "Come my pretties, it is time to travel to the winds."

     At her word, specters rise from the bottom of the pot, ugly and hideous as the thoughts and actions that created them. Severed heads, dripping blood, float into view, followed by their animated bodies, searching for what was lost. Six-eyed monsters with gnashing fangs and curled horns climb into the air. A multitude of beasts and legends soars about the room. Apparitions parade amongst the gathering minions, clutching their instruments of death, noose and dagger, club and arrow.  Her host is ethereal, yet all too real.

     Striding to the windows, the sorceress throws open the shutters, casting her nightmares into the recesses of the darkest hour. Her creation is dependent upon man's iniquity, for without it the world would rest in blissful slumber. However, she doesn't mourn the departure of her handiwork; she knows that man's mendacity is boundless, and an infinite harvest will always await.

     "That which lurks deepest in their hearts, return to the realm from which you came."
Nighmara's grin grows vicious knowing that guilty and innocent will suffer alike. She throws her arms wide in exultation. "Wake them. Haunt them. Grant them no peace."