In his house in Rileae, Deque Toulou waits dreaming, the words pounded in Henry's mind as

he clawed his way to the shore.

The sky was, fittingly, green, as the young man coughed saltwater until he vomited on

the stone path and looked up to the island.

Before dropping to his knees and vomiting again, this time it wasn't from the saltwater.

He couldn't remember boarding a ship.

Didn't remember wrecking.

He had no idea what he was doing here.

He was a sculptor, an artist, a sailor.

In this place, this place made his mind hurt.

Rock clunked to the ancient stone buildings if they could even be called that.

The buildings didn't make sense.

Stairways contorted and connected back onto themselves.

You'd climb a walkway and a tower to its own base.

The whole place was constantly warping and changing.

Yet remains still as a corpse as Henry staggered further inland.

Words pounded in his head, a mantra, and the background of his mind in some dark, forgotten,

obscene language that somehow he understood.

In his house in Rileae, Deque Toulou waits dreaming.

Here in the center of the island stood a tower, a cathedral, and even though he couldn't

recall how he managed to arrive there, Henry felt overwhelmingly drawn to that single

tower that monolith, going there was the solution.

...