1. Escape the nautiloid

“Mmm…Hot”

“To h-hot…wha -”

“What the fuck!”

The half-elf man’s eyes snapped open, a sudden rush of consciousness flooding his senses. Panic clawed at him from within, a primal urgency that set his heart pounding against the stifling confines of the coffin-like pod that encased him. The air was thick with an oppressive heat, wrapping around him like the coils of a constrictor. His lungs strained for breath, each inhalation a battle against the suffocating closeness.

Fear surged as beads of sweat trickled down his temples, rehydrating mats of dried blood that clung to his hair. He squinted through the hazy sheen of the chitinous walls that encased him, trying to discern shapes or colors beyond, but his vision swam, uncooperative, and blurred.

Desperation gripped him, lending strength to his limbs as he thrashed within the strange prison. His movements were clumsy, frenzied—fists pounding against the slick surface. 

"Help!" his voice cracked, the word tearing from his parched throat, raw from disuse. He called again, louder, his plea echoing in the tight space, yet no answer came. 

He redoubled his efforts, fingers scrabbling against the seamless join of the pod's lid, searching for an edge, a weakness—anything. But the material held firm, impervious to his attempts. A mounting terror threatened to choke him, a recognition of helplessness that loomed larger than the darkness pressing in from all sides.

"Please," he gasped, the word barely a whisper now, a futile invocation in a place where hope seemed forgotten. But even as his muscles screamed and his breath came in ragged sobs, he would not relent. 

With a cacophony of tortured machinery and groaning bulkheads, the ship convulsed violently around him. The man’s heart hammered in his chest as he braced for impact, as parts of the ship fell from the collapsing ceiling. The translucent lid above him buckled, fracturing into a web of jagged lines before shattering completely.  Debris raining down upon him, sharp edges biting into his flesh as he shielded his face with trembling arms.

Blood welled from fresh cuts, warm and slick against his skin, but he paid it no mind. He seized the momentary chaos, surging upward with a guttural cry, half in pain, half in defiance. Glass crunched beneath him as he clawed his way out of the pod, every movement an agony that seared h​​is senses. He panted, each inhale laced with the acrid tang of burning circuits and molten flesh.

He stumbled forward, his boots leaving bloody footprints on the floor. A sharp pain in his upper arm drew his attention to a deep gash leaking blood, blending in with the dark red fabric of his robes that clung to his sweat-soaked skin. With shaking hands, he grasped the hem of his robes, gritting his teeth as he tore a long strip free. His fingers fumbled with the torn fabric as he wound it around his arm.

“Illmater spare me this lesson,” he spoke to himself in a frustrated tone before pulling the makeshift bandage taught with his teeth. “Whatever it may be.”

With a sweeping gaze, he took in the reality of his predicament. Beyond the confines of the ruptured vessel, fires raged—a hellish tableau illuminated by violent orange and crimson. The flames licked hungrily at the exposed innards of the ship, casting long, menacing shadows that danced grotesquely across the walls. They seemed almost alive, reaching for him with smoky tendrils, eager to claim another soul for their inferno.

“Where the hells am I?” he winced, stepping away from his destroyed pod. It was then that he saw it—a gaping maw torn into the vessel's hull, a jagged aperture through which the void reached hungrily inward. The sight beyond was a panorama of desolation. A vast expanse of barren red stretched beneath a sky smeared with the dark ink of despair, and through that nightmarish vista sailed a flying fortress. Its presence loomed ominously over a river that ran the color of spilled blood, its waters churning with unspeakable intent.

"Impossible," he gasped, the word clawing its way out of his throat, raw and disbelieving. The magnitude of his plight pressed down upon him, a tangible weight that threatened to crush the remnants of his resolve. “I-I’m in the nine fucking hells?”

As he took an involuntary step back from the breach, his boot came down on something slick, nearly sending him sprawling. Stabilizing himself against the wall, he cast his gaze downward and recoiled at what met his eyes.

Beneath a film of bioluminescent sheen, a pool of ichor seethed, casting an eerie glow that danced across the deck with ghostly light. Within its depths squirmed parasitic worms, their writhing forms a testament to the abominations that resided within this accursed vessel.

A cold realization sank its teeth into him— this was the domain of mind flayers, architects of nightmares, and harvesters of thoughts. He shuddered, those vile creatures had implanted one of their parasites within him… Was he destined to become a thrall to their insidious will? The panic within him surged, like a frenzied animal. His breaths quickened, feeding the fire of terror that blazed through his veins. He could not—would not—succumb to such a fate. 

The air itself seemed to shudder, as a sudden roar tore through his spiralling thoughts. It wasn't the groan of metal nor the howl of wind—it was alive, primal, and utterly terrifying.

Instinctively, he ducked, crouching low as the roar crescendoed to a fever pitch, vibrating through the very marrow of his bones. A dragon, here in the fiery bowels of the hells, pursuing them by the looks of it. The absurdity of it all struck him with such force that laughter bubbled up from the depths of his despair, a madman's glee in the face of certain doom.

"Of course, why not add dragons to the mix?" he said aloud, the words laced with the sharp tang of sarcasm. "As if Mindflayers weren't enough."

As the man caught his breath, he steadied himself against the pulsating wall, his fingers brushed against something cold and metallic at his throat. Frowning, he reached for the unfamiliar object, his hand trembling as he pulled it free from the sweat-soaked collar of his robes. A delicate silver chain slipped through his fingers, and at its end, a golden ring glinted in the flickering light.

The ring was simple yet elegant, its surface etched with delicate designs that seemed to shift and dance as he turned it in his palm. But it was the fading letters inscribed along the band that caught his eye, barely legible in the dim light: "VALANC," it read, each letter etched with purpose, though the final few were lost to time or trauma. As he stared at the incomplete inscription, memories tumbled forth—a kaleidoscope of images and emotions that ripped at his psyche.

Piercing, inhuman eyes bore into his soul, their gaze a weight that threatened to crush his very essence. A soothing voice whispered in his ear, its cadence alien and incomprehensible, yet somehow familiar. The words, though unintelligible, stirred something deep within him—a memory, perhaps, or a forgotten truth. Then came the gore, vivid and nauseating. Flashes of viscera and violence flitted across his mind's eye, each image more disturbing than the last. The emotional turmoil churned within him, a storm threatening to capsize the fragile vessel of his composure. He closed his eyes, willing the assault to cease, but the fragments clung with a stubbornness that defied his commands. 

As The man grappled with the onslaught of broken memories, a distant cry pierced through the cacophony of his mind. The sound was faint, barely audible above the ambient groans of the dying ship, a desperate plea for help echoing from the chamber beyond.

The visions receded like a tide pulling back from shore, leaving him disoriented. He blinked rapidly, his eyes refocusing on the nightmarish reality around him. 

“Help us!” the voices continued, reverberating off the flesh-coated walls. 

"More survivors," he whispered, his voice hoarse. “H-hang on, I’m coming.” 

Steeling himself, he pushed away from the wall and headed towards the sound. The cries led him to a chamber veiled by a door of torn flesh, its gaping wounds a grotesque mockery of an invitation. With a grimace etched upon his face, he pushed through the macabre threshold, in search of the voice. 

"Where are you?" he called out, his voice barely a whisper above the din, his dry tongue faltering. 

"Hurry, please... help us..." The voice was fainter now, a dying ember amidst the cold expanse of suffering. The man’s heart clenched,  it was more than mere survival that guided him; it was the unspoken bond of shared torment, the innate knowledge that no soul should endure such nightmares alone.

"Keep talking," he urged, his tone a blend of command and comfort. "I'm coming for you."

The chamber unfurled before him like the maw of some great leviathan, hungry and expectant. Dim light from bubbling aquariums, cast a sickly green glow, throwing elongated shadows that seemed to twitch at the corners of his vision. He stepped forward, each movement deliberate, trying to ignore the coppery stench of blood that filled the air.

A symphony of soft whimpers and mechanical clicks played to the rhythm of his hammering heart. The man scanned the room, his eyes darting from one grotesque scene to the next. Bodies, or what remained of them, were splayed across tables and suspended in vats of murky liquids. Each was a specimen under the mind flayers' twisted scrutiny, dissected and rearranged into nightmarish parodies of their former selves.

In the far corner, a figure lay strapped to a slab of cold metal, its limbs splayed in unnatural angles. As he approached, Valance's disgust warred with morbid fascination. It was an elf, or at least it had been. Now, its skull had been carved open, the delicate silver threads of its brain exposed and pulsating. Each quiver sending ripples through the translucent membrane.

"Help... us..." The words did not come from the elf's lips but echoed directly within Valance's mind. The telepathic plea struck like a bolt, rooting him to the spot. Bile rose in his throat as he beheld the wretched creature's suffering. The brain writhed again, more urgently this time, as if aware of its audience. Valance could feel its terror, a raw and primal thing, cutting through the haze of his shock.

He stood transfixed, his eyes locked on the pulsating brain before him. The creatures’ suffering was palpable, a psychic anguish that seemed to permeate the very air around them. As he gazed upon the exposed neural tissue, something stirred deep within him—a compulsion, inexplicable yet irresistible, to reach out and offer aid.

The man found himself drawn closer, his hand reaching out of its own accord. The air around the exposed organ seemed to hum with an energy he couldn't quite explain, a silent song that resonated deep within him.

"I... I don't understand," Valance whispered, his voice barely audible even to himself. 

And then it happened—a command, fierce and undeniable. 

Tear it apart!

The man’s fingers curled into claws, driven by a force beyond his comprehension. His hands shot down, his movements almost a blur, striking the exposed brain with wild ferocity. Tissue ruptured under the force of his assault, a splatter of cerebral fluid marking his skin like a macabre baptism.

A visceral shudder ran through him as the telepathic cries fell silent, snuffed out by his unwilling hands. Horror swamped the man’s senses, a cold current that threatened to drag him under. He staggered backward, his mind grappling with the monstrous act he had just committed.

“G-get out of my head!” he shouted, the need for air becoming all-consuming as he turned to flee the chamber of horrors. His boots slipped in a slick puddle of blood, remnants of the creature. His body betrayed him, pitching forward as he fought to regain his footing.

The room spun, a grotesque carousel of death and desolation. The man’s throat burned with the urge to scream, to expel the nightmare that clung to his very soul. But no sound came forth as he stumbled through the wreckage.