Pain coursed through his body, the crack of a whip resounded out in the otherwise silent cell. Agony spread through the bedraggled convict as he tried to lurch away, but all he managed was to pull at the manacles clapped to his wrists, which were already rubbed raw from the tight encircling metal.

He couldn’t remember anything but the pain. It felt like eons since he could focus on something other than his flesh being ripped, his organs being shredded, his back pulling apart at the seams.

But today for the first time in what felt like forever, he was being unshackled. Something was roughly pulling him free, each tug at his wrists burning him anew, but eventually, his manacles dropped to the ground with a loud clang.

Two strong hands pulled him bodily off the ground, his limbs too feeble to protest. He tried to open his eyes, but they’d long since crusted over with blood and ichor.

He tried to make sense of this change. It had been...well…who knew how long since he had any idea of time. They kept him mostly in the dark, forcing him to lose his sense of night and day, much less his ability to keep track of the months or years.

Now his captors were moving him, but to where? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been moved, but he felt terror beginning to bubble forth.

Something deep inside told him he was going somewhere worse. Each step his captors took, he felt fear build up within him. He’d been here before, he realized. Every so often the pain ebbed away, to be replaced with terror. Beginning to struggle feebly against his captors grip, he felt their grasp press down even firmer. Gasping with pain, he tried to wrench himself free, only to be rewarded with a momentary pause in their travel. It didn’t take them long to get him back in line. His weakened body protested every single time he moved, let alone when he tried to muster enough strength to break free of his captors' firm hold.

Heaved forward, it felt like he was being thrown off a cliff. He was flying through the air, down, down. He let himself fall, fighting against all his natural urges to throw his hands out and try to catch himself on something. For a moment, he allowed himself to dream of being free, of being tossed to his death, but he was sorely disappointed. Landing without grace, he plunged into a liquid of sorts. Thick and syrupy, it seemed to invade his every pore. It burned at him, yet also soothed his damaged nerves.

His body was re-knitting itself, open wounds closing, his body miraculously repairing itself as the liquid churned around and inside him. As the ever-present agony receded from his broken mind, so too did the pale over his memory. Pushing upwards, he broke through the viscous liquid’s surface, gasping for air as his eyes opened. Wildly flailing his recuperated limbs, he took in his surroundings, gasping as fear ran unbridled through his soul.

Gnarled and twisted beyond comparison, he was surprised to find himself in a garden of wilted plants. The ancient trees with their withered branches bore atrophied fruit, strange cousins of the ones that used to sit upon his dinner table. Various plants grew around his ankles, twisting together as though they were fighting each other for space. Their leaves were curled and brown, and they shed withered seed pods and odd-looking blossoms. Yet these were not simple rotten corpses. Each one was still bearing seeds and blooms despite their deadened appearance.

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Around him, the creatures of his nightmares lurked, each watching him with contempt. Their red eyes flashing. Their bodies undulating strangely as though they were poised to attack him at any moment. These were twisted versions of real animals, skeletal horses with rotting fetlocks and weird cat-like creatures, larger than anything he’d seen before, their oversized canines dripping with black liquid.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a pale Human looking at him with hunger in its eyes, its fingers and hair adorned with golden trinkets. Dressed in billowing robes, it grinned at him with blatant malice, its two sharpened fangs practically quivering with the desire to drain his very essence. It pointed a trembling bony finger and his gaze followed it, breath hitching in his newly healed chest.

A misshapen amalgamation loomed above him, one he recognized as an old foe. Silver hair fell down over half-elven features, a look of grim acceptance scrawled over its face. Dressed in a blackened vest of leather, that was where its Humanoid features ended, as a stony shape filled the rest of its body. Powerful limbs ended in sharp talons, as two bat-like wings burst from a broad beast's back.

The prisoner flinched backward, tumbling out of the healing vat he’d been dumped in. Whispers flowed through his mind, memories of a time long past returning to him. He remembered the twisted centaur, he could just barely remember his name… Lying against the broken cobblestone, he watched as two heavy-clad boots approached him. Looking above him, the tattered man let out a cry of horror as he took in his jailer's face.

Towering above him stood an intricate suit of armor, made from the finest of silvers. But rather than gleam with a beautiful polish, the armor appeared warped, twisted and burnt by the flame. The visor was lowered, but the prisoner knew first hand that no mere mortal lay encased within the plate armor’s bosom. No, the armor stood on its own, its host having long since been burnt to a fading ember, and yet the hatred it bore gave it a life of its own.

The prisoner quailed at the memory of the jailer's thirst for vengeance, the unending whippings that broke and marred his back. But more than his fear of his captors, it was the memories of his failures that burnt him the most.

He had lived a life dedicated to fighting evil’s grasp wherever it dared to show its face. But his greatest failure stood before him, a constant reminder of the souls he had failed to save. Pushing himself to his feet, the prisoner warily turned his eyes to the true source of his torment, feeling his strength returning with each passing moment.

Standing amidst the mockery of a garden was the undying horror that lay at the heart of Dray’Mel. Hands raised in defiance of the Gods, Above and Below, stood Rath’Mel. Frozen in place, the sorcerer who’d doomed an entire city seemed to loom over them all. His flesh, wriggling wildly on exposed bone, was in a constant war of rejuvenation and decay, little pieces of life being devoured by unending darkness.

More than any other feature though, the prisoner felt absorbed by Rath’Mel’s eyes. While the Archmage may have been trapped in a perpetual loop of suffering, his eyes still blazed with unholy light, taking in the sum total of the ragged captives soul. His skeletal lips unmoving, Rath’Mel spoke directly into the minds of those around him, his tone light even as necromantic energies swirled in a chaotic show of power.

“How kind of you to join us once more, Arthur Brighthammer. We have need of your… expertise…”