He was somewhere else.

Assailed by mad dreams he felt his body disappear, as if it was merely constructed out of layers of shadow reincorporated again into a corpus. Into himself. The last things added; the Bollock of Want. And the Orach of Mending. Aligned.

It was a vast plane. Before a promontory from which he looked down upon it. His sword on his back. The sky a streaming liquid orange. Turquoise sand. And mad, mad angles in his mind as he turned, incorporating the world out of planes; the gaps deciphered, nothing consistent, not hidden, artificial in and of itself, as confirmed by the Orach - and yet he was here. He went down.

Watching his feet as he passed over the uneven terrain down onto the plane, he caught the glimpse, before him - as his perception directed a new corridor of reality that – he didn't understand this. Allowed for that.

But something of this nature was how it felt to be in/on this plane. All of this inside a dungeon? Inside himself? The Queen of Waat? The Black Chest of the Scrolls of the Prophecies of the Queen of Waat? Where was he? Where was Pheel? Who was he? Where?

Why?

He moved forward down onto that plane: the thing incorporating itself out of fields, planes, angles, and his perspective upon them; an edifice, an elbow, out of the sand, almost artificial rock cladding, and open like a melting wound. Nothing else. He went forward.

His consciousness. He'd had thoughts, he was moving toward some kind of understanding, no doubt by means of supernatural organs, of where he was and why. And what he was doing and more precisely, what he was being attacked with. Since the lies weren't working: a demon exchanging its presence from the room and filling Pheel instead -

- he wondered if Pheel realised, wherever he was – answer: that tunnel.

That traditional underground subterranean misty quest underground dungeon tunnel; the same space he'd repeated in himself, never not returned to. For a nondescript interchangeable magical item, something else; he felt a vast field of memory beneath him, half remembered, not even himself, a race memory in time of that region and what it meant. And yet he'd never dreamed.

Pheel was still there, but he had no idea if he knew that narrative, of the balancing demon, was a lie - or if he moved forward further into pulling it – on that narrative - out the room that had trapped Art by his effort - he didn't know.

How could he know it was a lie? Out his own head? The mad thoughts assailed him too, a weapon, the mania - the same way the weird dreams? He was being assailed, a non-dreamer, by these weird dreams. More thoughts, but he merely watched his feet and let them pass through him.

The upturned edifice was an elbow bigger than him, its mouth opened like a melting wound, it was this he moved toward beneath the insane orange liquid sky, upon that nuclear sand, toward it: no thing else - even flicking his gaze: offering his perspective to – anything, else, that wished a fleeting manifestation in relation to it. Nothing. Just the wound. And the elbow. And the fact that his supernatural organs told him, that it was right.

So he moved toward it.

The landscape of a dream. Waged against him true, correct, weird, and incomprehensible; also, where he was – but what did this mean? And these thoughts, these circling thoughts, these endless ruminations on his own identity and who he was? Were they part of the fight too? Were they induced in him? His organs agreed.

- Thank divinity itself, that he had his organs, however he'd been given them. These repetitive thoughts and actions too, on the theme of his own identity: weapons waged against him by the demon he was in some sense inside. Or Pheel, or both, or poured out the one into the other he couldn't -

- Merely progressing – except for this form of assault of thought - forced into him, indistinguishable, at this point, from his own, and yet he went on.

Between one moment and another he was before the wound, the upturned edifice elbow whose mouth, in the angles, wept like an open wound. It was an open wound.

He had to go in it.