Shadows. Darkness. These were the things she would see; the vague outline of great insectoid... creatures lurking just at the corner of one's eyes, just at the edge of one's senses. The ground was soft, squishy, putrid, and vile, with coalesced little ponds of brackish fluid too heavy and thick to be water, all about her feet in disgusting puddles.

There was the sound of scurrying; of chitinous plates grinding one against the other. Everywhere, a constant, throbbing, beating heart and perhaps, just perhaps, the great rush of air like the rumble of a bumblebee twice the size of Fluffykins the First heard through the thin pinkish-red membranes of the walls around her. Above her, intermingled with the spires of hair-like protrusions and the eyeballs which sat upon stalks projected from the wall, near-transparent -- pipework, perhaps? -- shuddered and shook as more of the thick black sludge moved through them. Occasionally, through the murk, the press of an all-too-human hand pressed outward against the membrane of the "pipe" before being pushed along.

There was light. Bright light, shooting straight from the infinite blackness above her to drop into a single circle upon the uneven, tainted, soiled surface of the floor. And in that single circle of bright light stood a man.

A man dressed in interlocking, overlapping plates of black metal with strips of what-might-be human skin woven into them. Tiny spikes rose off the pauldrons on his shoulders, emblazoned onto the front of the breastplate that seemed to move -- and groan -- from time to time. From the man's shoulders hung a black cape that moved around his booted calves. Though Alysia Skye could feel no wind, feel no movement of the heavy "air" at all, his abyss-black cape flowed as if a steady breeze blew at his back.

She would recognize the armor, of course, if she had a mind to. It was a suit of armor, called Thrakan. A suit of armor that made the wearer almost entirely untouchable to any magic, arcane of divine, that those who dwelt upon the mortal worlds possessed. It was the same type of armor that Garen Corlagon was wearing the night he died, the same suit of armor that was hopelessly annihilated by the champions of Rhy'Din.

Around the dead-eyed man's throat twisted a single... thing. A tentacle, yes, pale green and yellow with the tiniest of hairs rising out of it in rare few places. It flexed, and the man came to life, speaking abruptly.

"You see much, Alysia Skye of the Morning Realm of Rhilshen," his voice made her Top Clerk sound ecstatic. This man's voice could make a rock seem charismatic. "Perhaps your attentions would be better served focusing upon your own realms, and the coming doom the Dark Ancient prepares to spill across your borders in a tidal wave of blood and terror."

And then nothing. It was almost as if the dead-eyed man was awaiting her response.

?You seem to know who I am, and I suspect you know whom I seek. Either tell me where Jodiah Ayreg is, or identify Whom you speak for.?

The tip of Angylsblud set itself into the squishy, organic not-ground of around her feet, and everything seemed to shake. It shuddered, it moved, but only barely. A few ripples across the brackish ponds of viscous fluid littering here and there, and then nothing. It must have been some kind of creature she, and all the rest, were inside. And the tip of her soulsword like the sting of a bee. The bite of a mosquito.

The dead-eyed man spoke, "The mortal known as Jodiah Ayreg belongs to us, and is in the charge of one of our agents."

Glimmering, several pairs of x-shaped eyes erupted to life in the infinite void behind the dead-eyed man. As if a number of great, monumental beasts had woken at the same time, they turned one amongst the other from the movement of their colossal eyes. They... made noises then, to each other, amongst themselves, great wheezing, howling, or grating, guttural noises. This continued on for several seconds before the tentacle unwrapped itself from the dead-eyed man's neck, and slithered back into the black from where it came.

The man in the Thrakan armor looked... like he was never alive. Shoulders slumped, just marginally, face pointed down toward the ground, he looked like he might have been a mannequin at a clothing boutique. Another tentacle, this one of a darker and decidedly purple color and covered with little pustules, shot out of the dark and wrapped itself 'round his throat. In that instant, his shoulders straightened their posture once again, and his face looked up and turned to her. An immediate difference.

Abruptly, the man began to speak, "We speak for ourselves, Alysia Skye; we who will not lower ourselves to speak in your tongue. Know that the boundaries of your Self has come to our domain of Malfeas. Know that we are the Nihil, the eternal will of the shadow."

The dead-eyed man droned on. His voice really could have made a rock seem charismatic. Every word he uttered was exactly the same as any other. There was no emotion, there was no inflection. No facial expressions to accompany them, nor gestures, nor-- well, anything really. It was downright boring listening to the dead-eyed man talk.

"Know that you are granted this audience out of custom and tradition older than any who walk the mortal world. By the Deed of Nerg'ziel you are given--"

The man stopped speaking as another of those x-shaped eyes appeared far to the left of the others. It must have lumbered, growing larger until it was the same size as the rest, and then it howled and chattered, growling and grunting and clicking in a harsh and fast string of sounds. Another responded, and then another; great cries and twisted noises that shook the large room in which she stood. Off to the right, in the corner of her eye, Alysia could see the scurry of those large insect-like creatures moving along the wall.

And as abruptly as the dead-eyed man had stopped, he started again, "--passage here. Know also that your words are not without borders. Your time is limited."

"Speak, Alysia Skye, and be heard. The Nihil will listen, by the Deed of Nerg'ziel."

Whatever any of that meant.

"Tell me where Jodiah Ayreg is. Who holds him, and for what cause?"

The dead-eyed man opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again in an instant, punctuated with the soft click of teeth. The tentacle about his throat tightened once and then relaxed, withdrawing and slithering away back into the shadows of the infinite dark behind him that not even the most enhanced of vision could pierce.

The only shapes within, the enormous x-shaped eyes, turned one to another as if mounted upon stalks, and the horrendous noise of their own speech echoed again throughout the Hall of the Nihil. When Malfeans spoke, it was as a terror from the deep places of the earth rose just a bit higher toward the surface. The walls shook, the air itself seemed to vibrate. It very well might have, given how oppressive and heavy it was with moisture. The vile excuse for air around Alysia seemed more suitable to drinking than to breathing, but the foul, putrid smells it carried with it, along with the slight sensation of being pelted by something as if one stood within a sandstorm, encouraged one not to breathe too deeply.

Staccato grunts, low growls, hisses, strange popping noises, and deep, echoing howls marked the start of a series of statements and words by the Nihil. Enormous eyes turned one to another, until one, whose eyes were larger than the others, and glowed with a sickly pale tinge of greenish-yellow, snapped off a quick series of deafening shrieks. It turned itself back to Alysia, and another tentacle, colored to match the glow of its colossal eyes, shot out from the infinite black to envelope the dead-eyed man's throat once more.

Abruptly, he spoke. "Know that the mortal Jodiah Ayreg resides still upon the mortal plane, in a cavern suitably hellish for his crimes of compassion. Know that he is held by the agent of the Mistress of Torment, Adrianna De`Seis. Know that he is being punished for failure and weakness in the eyes of the Nihil, suffering for his treachery and betrayal."

The man, whose eyes were void-black pits of emptiness, did something then. White skin pulled, causing the spiraling spiderweb of black veins beneath his flesh to tighten their spread, and the dead-eyed man in the Thrakan Armor smiled. It was like death itself smiling.

"The Deed of Nerg'ziel will not protect you if you choose to act against us. Though that pact allows for bargains between our kind, and certain concessions to be made," the dead-eyed man didn't miss a beat as he continued speaking, though his voice took a certain tone to it. An almost-inflection that made the words all the more potent, as if there was some semblance of passion behind the words, "Jodiah Ayreg belongs - to - us."

"Search for him in Rhy'Din if you will, Alysia Skye. Know that you will mark yourself in the eyes of the Nihil for defying the Deed of Nerg'ziel, and that, in the fullness of time, you will share his punishments. And long before death is allowed to claim you, long before the eternal essence of your spirit is cast screaming into Oblivion, long before you are offered up as food for the Malfeans -- you will know the wrath of the Nihil is not a trifle to be taken lightly."

The shadows surged around the edge of her vision. The large insect-like creatures skittered about, surrounding her. There must have been dozens of them in that room. Hundreds of them. Mandibles clicked as the creatures snapped their jaws together in rhythmic pulses, acting as if they would set upon her like a wave crashing upon the shore.

"Go now, Alysia Skye. The Nihil has finished with you."

Sudden, but be a good way to say it. Abrupt. Jolting, even, the end of her Sight vision. For an infinitesimal amount of time there was, in an instant, nothing but black. An instant later, there was the figure of Jodiah Ayreg stripped of his dignity, broken and bloodied, tormented and battered by his captor. Stones. Fire. Heat. Black and red and yellow, haloed in orange. A bird called from somewhere in the distance.

It lasted for an instant, and then when that instant was over -- her consciousness was thrown, hurled, back into her immortal body upon the mortal plane.

The dream-imagess are mere passive observation, images wrought of memory, color and scent and emotion.

The dark stone of Rhilshen Fortress, framed by moonlight above, the charcoal-smudges of dire oaks below. Night-wind lifts, bringing with it the smell of blood and spice, sweet dry grass, wine, sweat. In the shadows, a strong figure, speaking quietly.

The emblem of a Queen. Leave-taking with a blurred sense of betrayal, anger, cold jealousy, distrust. As always!

Terse words are spoken by a lean figure with a velvet-rasping voice. The meaning of the thoughtful explanation is lost within this dreamscape, subsumed by the buzz of conversation and laughter in a crowded Inn. Eyes heavy with battlefield wisdom and things better left unknown by the living.

Blood pools hot and red, steaming on trampled snow. Desperation. A council chamber in Rhilshen, hazy and indistinct at first, then gilded, all light and sharp edges. A fat woman?s voice squawks in horrified indignation, like the sound of a chicken being decapitated. Amusement, then, for the analogy does not end with the comparison.

Spice-scent thickens and changes to smoke, almost sweet, muggy and more pungent than incense. Weapon-oil and oxidizing metal. The song of soulsteel Tart black ichor and ale. Tact and pride and tension. Invisible fetters and impeccable propriety.

The lumpy ridge of a scar under narrow fingertips. Rainfall clears the air, paints dark spots on cold stone, chills the flesh, then--

The dream shifts, losing its comforting fuzziness, replaced by --

Stones. Fire. Heat.

Black and red and yellow, haloed in orange.

A bird sings in the forest, oblivious to the scene of pain set beneath.