The master spy or Puss in the boot adventures

Lyra, the Goddess of Dreams part 11, Part 141

Just as it seemed all hope was lost, the air shimmered with an otherworldly light. Alric and the others looked up in awe as a host of radiant figures materialized before them, their forms blazing with the pure, cleansing light of the Dreamlands. At their head strode a figure of breathtaking beauty and power - the Lady of Dreams herself, she who watches over the slumbering minds of all living things.

"Begone, vile abominations!" the Lady cried, her voice a clarion call that caused the massed hordes of the Neverborn to quail and cringe. "You have no place in this realm or any other. Release your hold on the Dreamweaver, or face the wrath of those who safeguard the sanctity of dreams!"

The Dreamweaver snarled in defiance, the shadows around her lashing out like dozens of razor-edged whips. But the Lady simply raised a hand, and the inky tendrils shattered like glass before the shimmering aegis of her power. The other dream-guardians surged forward, weapons of shining thought and prismatic light flashing in their hands as they fell upon the monstrous horde.

Alric and the others watched in amazement as the tide of battle shifted in an instant. Nameless nightmares that had shrugged off their most valiant attacks now crumbled to dust before the onslaught of the Dreamlands' champions, dissolving like mist beneath the rising sun. The Dreamweaver screamed in frustration and redoubled her attacks, but it was clear that her power was waning.

Sensing weakness, the Lady of Dreams pressed forward, her radiant form blazing with an intensity that seared the eyes and pierced the soul. She strode through the disintegrating ranks of the Neverborn until she stood face to face with the snarling Dreamweaver, the full might of her ancient power gathered around her like a mantle of stars.

"Lyra," the Lady said, and her voice was gentle now, suffused with an aching compassion. "Dear child, lost in the labyrinth of your own dreams. I know you are still in there, beneath the layers of darkness and madness the Neverborn have imprisoned you with. Hear me now, and remember who you truly are."

The Dreamweaver hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty passing across her twisted features. For an instant, Alric glimpsed the Lyra he knew in those hell-dark eyes - frightened, confused, but still fighting against the forces that sought to consume her utterly.

The Lady stretched out a hand, her fingers brushing feather-light against the Dreamweaver's brow. "Come back to us, Lyra," she murmured. "Let the light of your true self banish the shadows. Embrace once more the simple joys and honest love that have always been your anchor and your salvation. 

The Lady of Dreams stood radiant and resolute, her shimmering form a beacon of hope amidst the nightmare realm. With a sweeping gesture, she summoned forth a swirling vortex of luminous dream-essence, the raw stuff of creativity and imagination given form.

"Guardians of Dreams, to me!" she cried, her voice echoing like a clarion call across the blasted hellscape. "Let us forge dreams anew from the shattered fragments of madness!"

All around her, the dream-guardians took up the chant, their voices rising in a chorus of defiant joy. They plunged their hands into the shimmering maelstrom, shaping the malleable dream-stuff with the force of their wills. Fantastical creatures sprang forth from the ether - noble griffins with feathers of spun gold, majestic dragons breathing cleansing flames of purest starlight, unicorns with manes of iridescent gossamer that trailed rainbows in their wake.

This host of dream-forged wonders charged into the fray, meeting the tide of nightmare horrors head-on. Claws of shining adamant tore through squamous flesh, while hooves of polished silver stamped out bubbling ichor-pits. Swords woven from the very fabric of heroic myth clashed against pulsating bone-scythes in a storm of sparks and shrieks.

At the center of the carnage, the Lady of Dreams herself wielded a staff of purest crystal, its tip blazing with the focused essence of a billion mortal hopes and aspirations. Each sweep of the staff sent torrents of coruscating dream-fire washing over the Neverborn horde, searing away twisted flesh and driving the monstrosities back with shrieks of pain and fury.

A wizened old man in robes of deepest indigo raised a gnarled staff carved from the heartwood of an ancient dream-oak, its polished surface inscribed with glowing runes of power. He traced a sigil in the air, his fingers leaving behind trails of argent fire, and where the completed sign hung it pulsed like a captured star. The old wizard thrust his staff forward with a wordless shout, and the sigil exploded outward in a nova of searing dream-light, engulfing a dozen Neverborn and reducing them to drifting motes of ash on the ether-winds.

 Warriors clad in armor of shimmering mother-of-pearl charged into the fray astride snarling beasts woven from starlight and raw imagination, their lances and blades leaving trails of prismatic fire in their wake. Wizened sages hurled lances of pure thought that pierced the unnatural hides of the nightmare spawn, causing them to detonate in showers of hissing embers. Lithe acrobats darted and wove between the raking talons and slavering maws, their mirthful laughter a mocking counterpoint to the beasts' shrieks of rage.

The abominations howled and thrashed as the dream-chains tightened around their misshapen forms, the unbearable brightness searing their shadow-flesh and sending plumes of oily smoke billowing into the turbulent skies. They lashed out with jagged claws and snapping mandibles, but each touch of the Lady's power sent them reeling back, their darkness diminished and their fury dowsed by her indomitable will...

Can the champions of the Mistress of the Dream defeat the Champions of darkness?