But because of that desperation, the search continued. The writings at Empath Abbey, the Lycæum in Moonglow, the libraries of Wind, the collections in Relvinnian's Hedge Maze and texts gathered from numerous other sources had all provided clues to a dread history, a history which had enshrouded many as of late, and Khyrian himself was firmly caught in its deadly grasp.

If the research itself was taxing, traveling to find each new source of information was wearying beyond repair. The Afflicted body that was Khyrian's neared its limits. The tireless pace he had set was too much for his mortal shell to endure, and sleep eluded him each night as he fought the spectres and wraiths that plagued his dreams.

Those battles were by far the worst of his afflictions. At first there had been direct, malevolent beings intent on his destruction, and Khyrian had been able to combat and resist them, though the effort cost him each night's rest. But these horrific phantoms had begun using much more subtle means of confrontation. Khyrian would be allowed to dream of a more pleasant past, filled with friends and places that he loved, but these dreams would become more terrifying than the others as his home became a disfigured place of pain and sorrow. Loved-ones would accuse him of betrayal and abandonment and would eventually attack him as fiercely as had the demonic minions.

Not only was his body beaten and broken from the physical brutality, but his heart and spirit were shaken and torn by the grief of these encounters. There seemed to be no way to continue on, but he did. It was not through nobility of purpose or strength of character that he was able to press on. It was simply because he still lived, that he still existed, and he had to continue doing that to which he had dedicated himself, though he was no longer certain just what that was.

The constant burden of the affliction and unrelenting attacks by the nefarious entities pushed Khyrian toward the bowels of the earth. He struggled to maintain a sense of awareness, but his conscious self finally slipped away from him. Relegated to being a mere observer in his own head, he watched day and night as his course brought him finally to the isle of fire.

There, deep within the festering hole called Hythloth, this would be ended.

Casually noting his mangled legs, he crawled through the dank passages, aware of the menacing presence of creatures full of hate and fire. They unleashed their fury upon him, intent on devouring the feeble wretch dragging himself across their dens, but they were met with devastating energies that annihilated them as they approached and struck them down when they fled. The crawler's infirm form was wracked with spasms from the great releases of power. It spat up dark globs of blood and then continued deeper into the vile pit.

Further it went, feeling the draw of the Lord of the Dead, knowing that its final destination was at hand. Baneful creatures assaulted it, but it did not allow itself to be stopped. It would reach the Dark Lord, and only then would the end come.

Halfway to the lair that was sought, the attacks changed. The denizens of fire shrank away as the malignant entities returned to plague both mind and body. Cunning forms they held, appearing as mortals, showing themselves as former comrades of the observer. Inside he quailed even as it threw up defenses around itself and hurled deadly bolts to deter the assailants. Laughing at its attempts to stop them, they seized it and tormented him with their taunts. It cried out his defiance, but his strength had reached its end. He collapsed as they swarmed around him.

Khyrian awoke with a start. Finding himself in the Enclave, he let out a slow breath and relaxed back upon his bed, contented to rest peacefully, his dreams unembattled for the time being.