A thousand tortures of the mortal body was but a single park of hell's creativity. Cris saw her blood spilled, flesh severed from her own body and dangled before her eyes, and felt a hundred implements pierce and penetrate her body, wiggling around inside. But she did not recoil from the torment visited upon her, not truly, she flinched and screamed and writhed, but she did not break the connection. She was aware, that she could return to the material realm if she so willed it, but she did not. Not yet, not until she saw her father. She wandered a bleak landscape of grey sand, trudging along, eyes stinging from swirling ash. There were some mountains in the distance, and that is where she set her gaze. She was thirsty, her throat burned, contracted and twisted, whilst her belly and joints swelled as her body felt the passage of days, weeks. Hunger gnawed at her, with her quest the only sustenance it received, her body was turning on itself. There were others too, trudging along, they followed her for a while, but invariably they split off. She looked at their shrivelled faces, knowing instantly they were not who she sought. Bur there were thousands upon thousands of poor, unfortunate souls, scattered across the unending greyness. She sought the mountain to climb, to see better, further, but then she would not be able to recognize their faces.<br/><br/>The air was hot, it burned her lungs, she was surrounded by burning metal, it closed in on all sides, sometimes she couldn't avoid it as she squeezed through and burned her flesh, the twitch of pain often leading to a second burning. And when she did successfully avoid them, devils emerged,  carrying blades which sliced her legs, jabbed into her feet, cutting expertly until she fell to her knees, waddling along that way, slow and vulnerable. Her stomach was ripped open and she had to clutch her own intestines to keep them from spilling out, pressing forwards, a barbed whip tore at her back, until her flesh came free in ribbons and she wore a cloak of red.<br/><br/>She felt the healing touch, sealing the wounds her body had received. It did little to aid her soul however.<br/><br/>She was in a marsh. She had been searching, bodies hung from trees, their bindings pulled until the flesh bruised. She was caught, and like the others the twine was tightened around her body. Across the neck, the shoulder, three times over her breasts, more across her belly, the flesh of her legs becoming waves, until she was unable to do anything other than wiggle like a worm. Salt was forced down her throat until her body rejected it, and she coughed it back up, lungs aching, throat ragged. Then more was fed to her. Below was the tickle of water she could never reach. And when she somehow did escape, they caught her again, and this time she was buried alive, no longer able to even wiggle, nor close her eyes, not even breath, yet somehow she stayed alive, to witness the earth around her for years on end. When the maggots came, it was almost welcome, just to feel a new sensation.<br/><br/>She wandered a bleak landscape of grey sand...It seemed the creativity of hell, or at least the spark she was made witness to, was running dry. Perhaps the healing magic, really had effected her, severing her from truly experiencing hell, and that meant she wouldn't never find him. Falling to her knees she clawed at the sand. Maybe he was buried there? But of course he wasn't. He was here, somewhere in the vast expanse of Hell, the real Hell, but she could not find him. Not with the limited time she had here. She would would return, and then, she would have eternity to find him. Finally, Cris let go, pulling back towards...<br/><br/>She awoke in infirmary. She sat up, looking around the room, relieved to be be back in this world, but at the same time confused and still a little scared.<span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 8pt;">“Help,”</span>she called out weakly.