No, this can't be right. This feels. . . different. This isn't how it usually is.
That awful blackness was as oppressive as ever, but the path was--it was confusing. The usual destination, before so clearly visible, was now indistinct, out of focus. It became more difficult to adhere to the usual path. It was like trying to trudge through waist deep mud. And the cold--was that the howling wind? There was always a chill in this place, but never like this.
No, something had gone wrong. There was a moment of bubbling panic. What would happen to those lost in the Exod? What terrible fate would befall them? Would they be doomed to wander forever? No, of course not! I just need to keep moving, as usual!
Moving was not as easy as one might hope. In denial, the lone figure struggled forward as if beset by terrible winds. But despite that wind's mournful call, it exerted no pressure. Something else was happening--something else was exerting force on that mysterious black world. Surely this was simply the inexperience of that dark silhouette. Planar travel was as safe and commonplace as traveling by horse--provided you took the proper precautions.
I've done something wrong. Can I go back? How long have I even been here?!
The Exod distorts one's perception of time. It is as of yet unknown whether perception is the only factor at play. For observers on both ends of planar travel, it would appear that those traveling the Exod reach their destination instantly--or close enough to it, at any rate. However, these travelers sometimes spin tales of walking the black world for hours at a time, while others will profess that it was merely a stroll of a few minutes or less.
Planar travelers describe their journeys in varying ways. It is not often that two different individuals will have the same experience. As such, it has been historically difficult to ascribe hard and fast rules to the practice. It is something one must experience for oneself. The lone figure, mired in invisible molasses, thought perhaps that some individuals could simply be incompatible with the Exod. A thousand horror stories regarding planar travel sprung to mind in an instant.
A man arriving at his destination liberated from his limbs in grisly fashion. A child who emerged newly mute. A woman whose memories had been completely wiped clean. These were tales that had been circulating for as long as that lone figure could remember--but were they really true? As terrifying as those possibilities might be, the most unsettling of all were the stories of the Lost Ones. Banished forever to the Exod--a realm the properties of which are large unknown--ostensibly never to be seen again. If you somehow manage to wander off the path that has been set to you, how would you ever find your way?
It was so dark. That was one thing that was impossible to reconcile. No stars hung in the sky nor moon to light the way--but somehow, inconceivably, the figure could see (or sense) which way to go. Or at least that's how it usually worked. The path was now indistinct in a way that was impossible to put into words. Vision was the wrong word for it--but no words existed to describe that feeling.
It was like touching the Strand--that cold, sickly feeling before abandoning instinct and allowing it to flow through your veins. The Strand always seemed to show the way--but not now. There was only the cold now. No warmth ready to suffuse the body and tell you that everything was now right. Just the cold sickness and the feeling of uncertainty.
--
Aisen was positively scrabbling up that awful tunnel. It was a necessity that he make his way through--Terakiel might be in danger, after all! But he didn't have to like it, and he was certainly ready for it to be over sooner rather than later.
The flickering flame in his outstretched hand lit the way ahead well enough, but it hindered his progress more than he'd like. Still, he wasn't about to drop the thing. He was terrified enough of the walls crushing him in their vile embrace--he couldn't begin to contemplate the enormity of his fear if he were stripped of his light source.
Though his elbows and limbs were now covered with invisible scrapes and his garments sported several new rips and tears, he did not slow his pace. The tunnel was sloping steadily upward, though he still could not begin to make out what might be at the end. Terakiel must have crawled quite a ways--far enough in, in fact, to eliminate the possibility of returning. Aisen had faith that he would have done so if at all possible. He wondered for a moment if his faith was misplaced--but there was something about the young man. Despite what he must clearly be hiding, he seemed trustworthy enough.
Terakiel seemed genuinely regretful that he'd ripped Aisen from the Exod. Granted, his reasons could have more to do with not desiring company than a feeling of responsibility, but Aisen preferred to believe his reasons were altruistic. The young Strander had done nothing thus far that would lead anyone to believe his intentions were unjust--at least not that Aisen knew of.
Thinking about the Exod made him recall why he'd been there in the first place. Sidea. . .how long had it been since he'd been there? So many years--and as soon as he'd decided to visit once again, poof--whisked away to a mysterious forest in the middle of nowhere. What kind of luck is that? Aisen didn't believe in fate or any other such nonsense like that but he had to admit the timing was extremely peculiar. And why was he of all people summoned in particular? There had to be dozens and dozens of people traveling the Exod at any given time. Could this not have happened to any of them?
There was so much they did not know. Terakiel's lack of control over his powers made him very unpredictable and dangerous. Despite his trust in Terakiel's intentions, Aisen fully recognized the potential danger of his situation. There was little he could do to coach the poor man; his limited knowledge would not be of much use. For the time being, however, they had to stick together--and Aisen was determined to help in whatever way he could.
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