Words song, he was lifted in the air, magic filled the air. He saw something, a beast of enormous size layed in the centre of the ritual. It was a dragon. A dragon that he knew.
With its last energies, he rebelled against the illusions and felt himself lifted by wires of metal to a platform. Wires and files infiltrating through his skin, his vision became more and more blurred. He was transforming into a monster. One of those monsters that he had killed a few hours ago during the ambush. The dragon eyes stared at him, unblinking, like it could watch him for all eternity.
He felt a great pain in his chest, devoured, he was vomiting, crying, bleeding. He felt a great fever and heat. He was tired, very tired, he was falling asleep.
One of the cultists came closer to him, he tried to bring him down.
Pxan bit his hand like a wild dog, making it bleed. The cultist gave him a punch and made his head spin. Nearly like what happened in reality.
He could feel the dragon breath.
And just as those wires started to penetrating its skull and bones and take control of him he wished for something. His vision for an instant became clear, he was once again lucid like he hadn't been for a long time.
He saw something deep in the tunnels, a beautiful tree with golden leaves and giant rabbits.
His thoughts were of an extraordinary clarity. He no longer wished for happiness nor pleasure, he only wished to touch, to hear, to see the eternal core. He extended his arm to the dragon, he touched its stony skin and saw his eyes. He stopped desiring all but one thing.
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The floor was dirty, the roof was dirty, everything was dirty and spoke of decadence. He stood for a few moments just looking at the wall, that dirty, humid wall, before realizing that he was still alive, still breathing. He recognized this air, it was the air of it’s home, he musn't be that far from civilization.
He tried to move and was met by crippling pain and bouts of blood.
His hands had been drilled, his feets butchered, his fat removed, his spine curved, his skin melted. He was even afraid of looking in a mirror now, regardless, he was still alive.
He saw some words on the wall not far from there. Slowly, very slowly, walking parallel to the wall, dragging one of his legs behind, started moving. It gave him pain even to walk a few meters.
E L 2
W T R G
S A
FIR H I
He paused, trying to decipher what was written on the wall. He smelled salt in the distance, water maybe? Then it cliched, he saw many of those writing in his youth. He was at the second level. He was safe, he just needed to drag himself to the nearest centre. Just a few….killometers.
The initial joy vanished. The nearest centre was probably, and that probably made him even more afraid, a few hours away. In this state even a kilometre would be a great challenge. A few were impossible!
He was again a corpse walking.