Arlan Book

Arlan Book swung his double-sided ax as hard as his body would allow. The serrated edge cut and sliced through flesh and bone with tremendous ease. The cries of his enemies fleeted with the passing gales, filling his nostrils with the warring scents of fire and blood. They were aromas which ominously aroused him, consuming his pulsing veins with hot surges of adrenaline.

Laying down his ax, Arlan took up his bow strapped around his shoulder and unsheathed a single arrow from the quiver. Pulling back on the bow string, he let the arrow loose from his sweaty fingers.

Arlan watched the brown feathers fastened to the arrow quiver against the wind as it sailed between the tree trunks. He watched as the serrated point struck the hairy cryptid in the chest, knocking it back into a thicket of sharp brush. He quickly plucked another arrow and continued his barrage against the furious army of folklore monsters slithering through and down the jungle of trees.

Witches cackled with pleasure from their hovering broomsticks, throwing potion grenades at his feet while werewolves, skinwalkers, centaurs, banshees, sinister fairies, ogres, gnomes and two sasquatches used the haze from the potions to close in on Arlan.

Down to his last arrow, Arlan recognized his vulnerability. Since it was his own dream, that meant he was the master of the realm. He drew his final arrow, closed his eyes, and blew an icy breath against the arrow head.

Arlan mounted a nearby boulder for a better angle, then shot the frozen arrow into the soil directly in front of the army of cryptids. The ground cracked and snapped into a consuming prison of ice, ensnaring the monsters in their pursuit.

The immense cold of the new environment jostled Arlan from his slumber. Wiping the sand from the corners of his eyes and stretching out all four of his limbs, he was shocked at the chilling temperature in his room. It was the middle of summer and yet he was freezing. He yanked the covers to his chin, and tucked his feet deeper into the silk sheets for warmth.

Unable to comfortably fall back to sleep, Arlan turned onto his side and twisted the knob to his desk lamp; filling his bedroom with vibrant yellow light. Shifting upright in his bed, his heart nearly stopped from the impossibilities his bloodshot eyes were gazing upon. He also unfortunately discovered the source of the cold.

Standing around his twin-sized mattress, hanging from the ceiling, and plastered to his walls, were all of the folklore creatures he imprisoned in his dream with his ice arrow.

A sudden gush of hot air flowed into his bedroom from the open window, and the glacier shells of each nightmarish cryptid from all of his favorite folklore legends began melting back to life.