As they finish climbing up into the Abyss, they look at the world that now surrounds them. The sky and air bleed crimson, thick with drifting ash that glows like dying embers. The air tastes of copper and rot. Red lightning forks silently across the horizon, illuminating the vastness of this hellhole.
The ground beneath their feet is parched black earth, a wasteland of horror. A faint breeze stirs the black dirt, sending dust skittering across cracked terrain. Beneath the fissures, black ichor throbs like slow veins of blood. Distant cliffs and hills rise in every direction, draped in a sludge of vines that pulse like arteries. This world looks alive but reeks of death.
The valley they stand within is notably void of any vines, almost as if they know of the evil that lies at the center—a sinister object that is impossible to miss. A nest of disfigured tree trunks splaying wide at the base, then arching upward to meet again at the top—like a dead spider fallen on its back, legs curled inward, lifeless. The whole shape looms, waiting, as though the tree itself remembers pain and refuses to forget.
Mike collapses back on his bed. Quickly, the visions begin to rewind—the Abyss, the tower, the dining table. Mike wakes up. Panting, sweating, frightened.
“He knows. Vecna knows we are coming.”