The ground was like thick tar, each step needing an over-zealous gait to get through, a viscous black fluid being dragged from foot to foot.
The Pilgrim hadn't been this way before.
Very few had.
Most would rather stay in the safe areas of the land, as far away from the Rotting Lands as possible.
But not him.
He couldn't explain why he felt compelled to travel to these places, its not like they welcomed him with open arms, quite the opposite.
But still he travelled, his trusty blade by his side, the dark-red metal a comfortable weight on his hip, unlike the pack on his back which threatened to push him deeper into the rot with each stride.
The sun was a distant speck in the shattered sky of rock and ice, the remnants of Zyrick-Who-Had-Been-Throttled.
The Pilgrim knew that he would soon need to made camp in this horrific place, knowing that there wouldn't be any shelter. Not here.
After another hour of trudging, the Pilgrim found a slightly less viscid patch of rot and begun his process of setting up a camp.
Fire wouldn't be any good as nothing living grew here anymore, it had all been assimilated eons ago, and the Rot had yet to let anything return since.
The Pilgrim awoke when the ground shook.
Within seconds his blade was in his hand and his eyes scanned the surrounding darkness.
His mind flitted back to the stories of areas in the Rotting Lands where the rot wasn't quite dead, even after all this time.
But nothing moved around him.
The ground was still.
The wind was non-existent.
The air itself seemed still.
Suddenly a pulse.
A pulse of pressure that seemed to shift the very molecules of the Pilgrim's form.
A pulse that cause the rot around him to flex like tiny fleshy tendrils.
The Pilgrim gripped his blade in a two-handed grip and continued to look around him, his hearts pounding in rapid beats.
The pulse hit again, and this time he saw its origin.
Past the next rot-ridge side there was a dull flash of a strange purple light.
The Pilgrim crept around the rot-ridge, each step causing his hearts to build a crescendo until he peeked around the ledge and saw the cause of his anxiety.
In what may have once been a crater, sat a strange object, elements of the rot draped over it, as if once upon a time it was trying to draw it deeper within itself.
It was a wreckage of warped and twisted metal of a beautiful golden colour, and near it's centre, mostly obscured by the rot itself was a wonderous rich purple crystalline structure.
As the Pilgrim approached, the crystal seemed to pulse quicker, almost as if it new someone was there.
The metal was unlike anything that he had ever seen before, across all of the safe-lands he had travelled, it was mesmerising, and even in this destroyed state he could see the wonderous designs across all of it's surfaces.
When the Pilgrim was but a mere step away from the construction, the pulsing stopped.
And the words began.
"S̸I̷G̸N̶U̷M̶ ̶Q̸U̴O̷D̶ ̴D̸E̸T̶E̷C̴T̸U̵M̴!̶ ̴O̶R̶D̷O̴ ̵S̸E̷Q̵U̶E̷N̸D̷U̸S̶!̵ ̸E̵T̷I̵A̵M̴ ̵F̵R̴A̴C̸T̸U̶M̵ ̸C̵O̶N̶T̵E̵N̸D̴E̷M̸U̴S̵!̷"̸"
The words, incomprehensible, in a tongue that he did not understand rocked his mind, as if the Ones-High-Above had allowed a storm to enter his mind.
He jumped away, hands flailing in the air in a fruitless attempted to defend himself from the words which continued to repeat.
He hand caught something sharp, slicing the palm open like a fruit, his precious blood scattering before him.
Falling to a ground he curled up like a child, his hands overing his ears when he realised the voice had stopped.
He wearily opened his eyes, as if to view the construct would bring back the voice, but all there was now was gentle pulsing light from the crystalline structure.
The Pilgrim gently got to his feet, looking back down at the construct when the voice once again appeared in his mind.
But unlike the raging torrent of power before, this time it came as a gentle rumble, the feeling as if some vast being was breathing.
And this time the voice was in his own tongue.
"I̶ ̶h̴a̸v̸e̵ ̷s̵l̷u̶m̶b̶e̴r̸e̷d̷ ̴f̷o̴r̸-̵f̸o̶r̴-f̶o̴r̵ ̵4̷5̵,̷6̶1̵9̴7̶ ̶s̴t̷a̷n̵d̸a̸r̸d̸ ̴c̶y̷c̷l̴e̸s̷.̸ ̸Y̸o̸u̴r̵ ̶e̵x̴i̷s̵t̴e̵n̴c̵e̸ ̴s̷h̵o̶u̴l̸d̸n̷'̴t̴ ̷b̸e̴ ̴p̴o̸s̶s̷i̶b̷l̴e̴.̸ ̴
E̴x̷p̶l̴a̵i̵n̶.̷"
The Pilgrim peered around, looking for any other possible source of the voice, until his eyes fell back on the gently pulsing crystal.
"Who, what are you?" He asked, his voice shaking as he took the step back forward towards the construct.
"I̵-̷I̸-̵I̷-̷I̸-̶I̸-̴I̵-̸I̷ ̵a̸m̴ ̵M̸A̶G̷N̶I̴F̶I̴C̶A̷ ̷T̶R̶A̷N̸S̶C̶E̴N̵D̴E̵N̶T̵I̴A̷…̷M̷a̶j̵e̴s̴t̵i̵c̷ ̴T̴r̸a̶n̸s̵c̵e̶n̷d̶e̴n̷c̸e̴.
A̶n̵d̸ ̷y̵o̴u̵ ̸w̴i̴l̶l̴ ̷a̶n̷s̵w̸e̶r̵ ̸m̸y̶-̸m̵y̶-̵m̶y̷-̶m̷y̵-̶m̸y̶ ̶q̷u̴e̴s̶t̴i̴o̵n̷.̸"