Picture in your mind, if you will, a man with a vendetta against the world. He dwells within a prison of black stone and obsidian black walls, but somehow the darkest precipices lie not within the confines of the sick and twisted cells, but within the poisoned mind of a mad man.
And down where the sun never shone, down in the depths of a prison of his own making, he waited.
He poured over empty books, scratching shapes and pictures of creatures not of this world, filling the pages with undecipherable cursive scribblings. His blonde hair had grown long and matted, and it fell over his green eyes like a cascade of golden hay, blocking his vision.
He sat in the back of his cell, his hands clasped around his knees as he stared down at the floor, his hands pulling slightly at the prison orange jumpsuit as he murmured curses into the warm air. He clutched something close in his hand, his fist tightening around it as he stared into the lavafall with a determined expression on his face.
He paused, before speaking aloud into space before him. "I know you are here. I can sense you."
There was a moment of silence before a voice rang through the small cell. "Keep your peace prisoner. I wish not to speak with you at this juncture." There was the sound of papers rustling, and then silence.
"Spare me a bit of humanity, would you?" Dream countered, slightly irritated by the curt response.
"I am not human, therefore I am not restricted by these purposeless and impractical impediments you define as empathy and compassion." There was more shuffling of papers.
"My people believe in the ruthless prosecution of those who have wronged the state." The voice paused, "In your position, I would consider my situation to be quite ideal, taking into account the circumstances and the involvement of myself. But do enlighten me, good sir, on why I should show you any sympathy, primarily regarding your actions upon those I care for."
Dream grinned, running a hand through his hair. "Ah, I recognize you now. Sam, is it? You give yourself away with the tales of your people. It certainly is a testament to the fact that you are still alive following the extinction of the entire elven race."
There was silence for a moment before the voice responded, slightly quieter. "The fate of my people is a matter of conversation I do not wish to discuss at this moment in time, or ever."
"Would you bring them back if you could?" Dream asked, tossing a stopwatch into the air and catching it. "You know... I'm a powerful man. I could-"
"Quiet. Neither I nor my people will ever require your pathetic excuse for magic." Sam said, irritation evident in his voice. "Necromancy. The very concept disgusts me to my core. Your evil tricks will never cause anything but harm." There was the sound of papers shuffling again, and the voice announced, "Sleep well, prisoner. Tis a shame I'm forced to keep you alive. If it were up to me, you'd be dead by now."
"Don't be curt with me, Sam. You know I'm no fool. I hold a power you will never understand." Dream threatened, his eyes narrowing. "You'll need me. Soon there will come a day where you beg me for help. Mark my words."
The cell was silent once more and Dream was alone.
He spoke quieter, mumbling under his breath an ominous promise, "He'll see. Soon they will all see. And I'm going to make them pay."