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own physical immensity—and was as excited as I to see
our contest resolved in the corridors of a city carved from
untamed madness. Wasting no time on one so undeserving,
I took my leave of the Prince and quickly made my way to
the City of Madmen.
As was my custom, I made my way across the most
haunted environs as I could put between myself and my
destination, wandering and wondering as I went, willingly
lost in dreamy reflection. Soon finding myself in new
surroundings, I drifted with even less direction, simply
aiming myself at the cardinal points that would bring me,
eventually, to my terminus.
My journeys were filled with all manner of wonderful
weirdness, as I often encountered some scrap or other
of Obscuruum. Either standing lordly and alien over the
prosaic fields of the dead earth or squatting within the hidden
margins of some grotesquely resolute slice of reality, such
contrasting aesthetics always made for delightful dreams.
They informed and imprinted my nocturnal visions with the
works of artists beyond the world, their canvases nothing
less than the stretched and dried skins of the Deadworld.
This particular journey was no different than any other,
and in short order I stumbled upon a dream—or so I believed.
A pearl-white stream flowed through the woods,
apparently killing any flora that neared its crumbling black
banks. It reflected the moonlight in a way I had never seen,
almost shattering the pale illumination wherever the moon
sought to touch the albino rivulet, creating a kind of visual
debris from the cold lunar light.
I moved to the edge of the water, careful to search for
any untoward presence as I went. There was nothing save
for the strange water itself. I looked for my reflection upon
the surface of the flowing stream, yet found nothing—only
endless, empty white. I became keenly aware of a certain
familiar feeling, but could not put clear memories to it.
There was also a tremendous artificiality to the scene—a
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