For the past several nights, I've been waking from my sleep in a fevered sweat, gasping for air.

  Each night, it's been the same dream — I'm standing on a bank of thunderclouds, cd in armor, a rapier in my hand, lightning fshing around me in great, brilliant explosions.

  I have nothing to compare myself to, but it seems that I am enormous, over a hundred feet tall. I feel I'm supposed to be fighting for something, someone.

  There is one overriding thought, "I must stop the Bck King.” But who is the Bck King?

  As the wind and storm whip and sh about me, I hear a cacophony of shrieks and screams, wailing, and the cck of cw and bone, chittering sounds.

  I see vague forms moving in the clouds about me. Emaciated, tortured shapes with long fingers ending in talons like swords.

  As the forms begin to emerge, the demonic creatures with hollow eye sockets, fangs dripping a caustic venom, begin to come at me.

  The strangest thing about this scene is that I'm not scared; in fact, I'm eager for battle. But, as you'll see, I'm no warrior. I'm no god. I'm just a man on a simple mission, and I don't know how I ended up in this fight.