Absolom stumbled to the side, retching as he fell to his knees. The psychic stench of death had been apparent, even before they and approached the profane alter. But the moment the Skeleton had set foot within the boundaries of the hieroglyphics something far worse had assaulted his senses, something borne from neither the dust this world, the currents Other Side, nor even the churning depths of the Warp itself. The sensation was primal, alien, beyond comprehension. It was older than Time yet had never felt it's passing, kindred to Death itself yet never fearing the scythe. Absolom could feel madness pressing in upon him form all sides, whispers and lunacies swarming across his psyche like untold swarms of Things that Lurk in the Corners. They told him of the world beyond the world, of reality without Shinma, of geometry that had been rejected in the foundation of creation. They spoke of stepping sideways to enter the realm of Dreaming, to where the Unshaped dwelt and where all that is gossamer is reality. They called him to the cold depths, where a city that housed dead dreaming gods waited for the day they would awaken the master whose house this was. Absolom was sure he would have been driven truly mad, SHOULD have been, if not for the bleak voice that hissed back at the Thing from Beyond.<br/><span style="color: #000000">This one is MINE, Lord of Canaan. You may batter and beat the form, even break it, but I shall not relinquish this mind and soul to one of the Old Ones. You have your fish Dagon, return to whence you came! Leave me in peace!</span><br/><br/>The Skeleton scrabbled his way back across the border of the amphitheater, barely able to make sense of what he was doing for all the voices clamoring in his weary skull. The bleak voice screeched profanities and spat obscenities into the gale of otherworldly torment, drowning out all coherent thought but the instinctive drive to escape this horrible place. As he heaved himself off of the obsidian in a final burst of strength, the Thing from Beyond sent a final psychic assault against the bleak voice that defended his mind.<br/><br/><span style="color: #00FF00">I.</span><span style="color: #FF0000">WILL.</span><span style="color: #0000FF">BE.</span><span style="color: #FFFF00">FREE.</span><br/><br/>The voice uttered some hideous combination between shriek of anger and defiant laughter, subsiding as the gale abruptly shut off. Absolom looked about him, his throat raw. The whole while he had been screaming in abject terror, interspersed with the occasional gut-churning retching. Though details were as vague as they always were, he could tell that the rest of the party was looking at him like he was a madman. None of them seemed to have been affected by the assault, or even aware of the profane nature of the place.<br/><br/>As he struggled to calm his erratic breathing the Skeleton heard one of the Boots mutter in fascinated disgust. "Sick! Is the mask crying blood?"<br/><br/>Caine quickly smacked the offending grunt upside the head, striding over to where Absolom lay curled and whimpering.<br/><br/>"What did you see spellcaster?" She asked, propping him against the tunnel wall and gingerly dabbing with a bundle of moss at the sanguine tears that streamed down his Foci.<br/><br/>"Ph'nglui mglw'nfah Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn." The spellcaster muttered, clutching desperately at the POG as if to assure himself that she was real.<br/>"Something dwells here. Trapped before the mountains were born. It's hungry, and it wants out. We need to leave. NOW!"