Bosch is a harsh place, that much is for certain. Although it seems to have its own life, it has been revealed to the Inquisitrix that so much of it is just blasted, barren earth, a great deal of the "life" there being wholly comprised of magic and a hefty dose of illusion. Indeed, after a while, she has come to be able to somehow "sense" things both as they appear … and to see an ever-so-faint glimpse of the reality behind the image. This has proven invaluable, or else she would have surely lost her way to the citadel long ago.

Nonetheless, it has been a long journey … all the more long because her Drokar succumbed along the way. Only once it had collapsed could she notice the subtle mutations that had begun to warp its form. At least the Drokar went quickly – more than could be said, if tales are true, of those who have come to this land and stayed here, and been bent to its shape.

Now … the rest of the road lies ahead … and with the passing of the Drokar, it's that much further away.

Turtle heavily draws her breath, silently praying and rueing under her breath, as she continues to trudge towards the citadel. She carries her crossbow over her shoulder now, along with one of the bags the Drokar once carried itself.

Imps off to one side and the other hurl insults at the unicorn, staying out of several arms' reach, but nonetheless putting on "bold" appearances. Those not busy shouting and making gestures and faces at the unicorn occupy themselves by performing all sorts of disgusting and violent acts upon themselves and their comrades.

Turtle shudders. "May the Star avenge against you all," she calls out, getting increasingly annoyed. Why she ever got herself into this she will never understand. She tries to keep her eyes on the road ahead.

As the unicorn passes, she can simultaneously see the imps in all their horrors … and the real world that is buried underneath. The great majority of the imps simply do not exist physically, save for the intervention of magic. But some of them have solid form, twisted and distorted. Some are only partially solid – If not for the magic holding them together, they would surely disintegrate in the normal lands beyond, obeying normal physics. Were they once truly alive? For whatever the unicorn can sense, nothing she sees can answer that question.

Continuing along, a figure can be seen ahead, standing in the middle of the path which Turtle can only perceive as being hidden by the illusory blanket of horrors. This figure, however, appears to be quite solid, though that perhaps says too much for his attire – a voluminous robe which is so tattered that the edges seem to be torn to ribbons that flutter in the wind. A hood obscures the face of the being, the features lost in darkness within. It's much like any other nightmarish being one might expect to find in a place like this, except that, in Bosch, this one seems particularly tame and subtle by comparison to his (or her or its) surroundings.

Turtle squints, then snorts. "Now they are starting to give me illusions that look like the Inquisitor," she mutters under her breath. She swings her crossbow around to where she can grasp it in a ready position. "By the Star, you will not stand in my way, creature!" she calls out, her annoyance turning to anger.

"I stand where I stand," the creature responds in a voice that, immediately after listening to it, one simply cannot remember just how it sounded. "What is your way?"

Turtle says, "The citadel ahead." She locks the trigger into place, sizing the creature up, "But that will not be your concern much longer… "

The figure responds, "If that is your destination, perhaps you would allow one to accompany you for a time."

Turtle's muscles go limp. She looks up over the crossbow, surprised at the creature's response. "And why do you wish to do that?" she finally responds, the sarcasm growing in her voice, "To ambush me like the horrible escorts I had before? I knew the Inquisitor was making a terrible mistake going on this quest, child or no."

The figure asks, "Why was it a mistake?"

An imp bounds up, giggling to himself or to no one in particular. "Hee hee! She'll never make it past him! No, never!"

Turtle says, "Well, it was nothing but an ambush, and the Inquisitor got dragged off to the Star only knows where… and why am I telling you this?"

The figure responds, "I do not know the answer to that question."

Turtle scowls at the imp, as if he would melt under her gaze.

The imp seems more interested in his nose right now than in responding to Turtle's scowl.

Turtle turns back to the large creature, and shivers slightly. Could Melchizedek have succumbed and become similar to this horrible thing before her? She quietly says another prayer, whispered under her breath for him.

The figure in front of Turtle quietly wavers … then falls and collapses to the ground, tattered strips of fabric splaying about.

The imp makes a raspberry noise. "Some monster YOU are! Didn't even put up a FIGHT!"

Turtle winces inwardly at the strips of fabric. This is all too much. She scowls at the imp again. "And I suppose you would like me to teach you the power of prayer?"

The imp giggles! "Oh! Don't get overconfident, missy! I'm sure it's a lovely thing, but you can't expect it to give you instant results every time!" He grins fangily. "Well, you can EXPECT it … but you're gonna get awfully disappointed, sooner or later." His voice steadily drops in pitch as he continues, sounding far less squeaky … and downright menacing at the end.

The cowled and cloaked figure, meanwhile, just lies in the middle of the path, showing no sign of any attempt at getting up … and not conveniently dissolving into mists or any such thing as many of the other monsters of this land have been wont to do upon defeat.

"Maybe, but you will never overcome me," Turtle's voice drops as well, but only in volume, as her face assumes its normal casual coldness, "Prayers are always answered… always on time." She seems to have more conviction than just confidence.

"Maybe, maybe … " the imp says. "But I can still hurt you. I can hurt you REALLY bad."

Turtle adds, "And you," lifting her crossbow, praying another consecration prayer swiftly, "can be destroyed." She pulls the trigger, trying to muster her faith once more.

The imp lets out a squeak of alarm as the bolt pierces it … and when the foul greenish cloud of vapor clears, there's no sign of the imp, save for a lingering reek of brimstone that just won't go away.

Turtle's eyes scan the spot where the imp once stood. There are two reasons she never trusted magic. The other was that it was so transparent and unreliable.

The spot where the imp stood bears no sign of its passing, save from a few last curling wisps of green smoke that are only barely noticeable as they dwindle further away.

For now, the unicorn is seemingly alone, for the most part. The imps have scattered, and none are within sight. The warped land sports some hideous-looking vegetation, but it does not appear to be mobile … for now. Said vegetation obscures the path which Turtle can still "see" ahead, which is still blocked by the fallen, robed figure, though she can easily just walk around it to continue on her way.

Turtle cannont help but feel a nagging sense of curiosity over the fallen creature. She leans over closer, trying to examine it as closely as possible without touching it, something she has yet to trust.

The fallen one's form is obscured by the coarse, tattered cloak, which seems far too large for practicality. The form underneath is no larger than normal-sized, from what can be told by the shape.

Turtle squints, trying to make out the color of the cloak, or any tracing of markings, on the wild idea that maybe it was stolen from Melchizedek. "I pray, despite the immodest thought, that if it is, the Inquisitor is still walking about somewhere without it." The reinforcements of her faith so far cause her not to allow belief in the worst at any stretch of the imagination.

The cloak has no trimmings or markings that suggest that it would have been appropriate for the Inquisitor to wear. Rather, it's far too coarse to be likely for someone of the rank of an Inquisitor or higher to bother with.

Turtle sighs, a bit relieved, but at the same time more apprehensive than ever. She crosses her fingers over her chest for the figure, then stands up. "My imagination makes this place worse than it really is," she chides herself. She trudges on around the figure.

The wind whips by, stirring the ribbons of torn fabric, intermixed with a few strands of crimson hair. Nothing reaches out to stop Turtle. Although some of the vegetation seems to bar her way, it proves to be totally ineffective as an obstacle.

Behind Turtle, she can hear a whole chorus of giggling laughter. The imps must be rolling over themselves, as they chortle.

Turtle gasps. She turns around, looking back. Her eyes narrow. There is something going on. "Speak what you find so humorous, cretins," she half-orders, hand moving over the crossbow. She is getting very short on patience now.

The imps look up at Turtle, then grin at each other. "Oh! Nothing! Nothing at all. Move along now! Shoo shoo! Not much further to the citadel!"

Another imp waves a polka-dot hankie. "Bon voyage!"

Turtle snorts, the loudest she has since the journey began. She feels so helpless to understand, but something must be hidden here. "Oh, Star, I demand so much from you. But let the truth here be revealed. I feel I'm at the end of myself."

Nothing happens. Turtle is standing on the path, with a fallen figure at her feet (or hooves, really), a bleak landscape around her, and several jeering imps a good distance beyond.

The imps look at each other and start laughing again.

Turtle closes her eyes. Surely after all that has happened so far, this can't be true. She closes her eyes, trying to hold to her faith.

The imps keep laughing … but after a while, they must be losing interest. Their laughter fades away.

Turtle opens her eyes. Tears have already begun down her face, but she quickly wipes them away. She clutches her crossbow, ready to defend or leave, whichever is necessary, now that things have quieted down.

The imps are gone. The vegetation has retreated as well. The bleak landscape is barren and dusty, lifeless and unwelcoming.

The sky, however, is still glowing pink, though it is darkening, as if it will at last be nighttime – though surely many days have passed during this journey. In the distance, the geysers of flame, the bizarre constructions, and the cavorting denizens of this land can still be seen … though – at least for now – safely far, far away.

Turtle shakes her head, even more confused now. She searches for the fallen figure before heading on her way. Was it just another illusion?

No, the fallen figure is still lying sprawled in the dirt. If it's an illusion, it's a very convincing one.

Turtle sighs. She turns and trudges forward, her heart growing as heavy as her pack. "Some poor soul fallen before the magic fully took over his body, no doubt. Praise the Star, I have not joined him." She tries to push an image of a fallen unicorn out of her head along with this one.