In the middle of a forest that no longer has direction,
Nestor Borislav spurred his horse,
As the sky turns into a scarlet scar.
There is no guiding star in the firmament,
Only copper vapor suffocates my chest,
Erasing the boundaries between real and empty.
"Sir," a hoarse voice broke the silence,
Not from humans, but from Lazlo the stallion,
The horse's eyes were now shining, silver and pure.
Nestor was stunned, his hands gripped the saddle reins,
"Since when do animal tongues know holy words?
Or is it possible that my sanity is lost here?"
"Earth's logic has died," Lazlo replied coldly,
"Our feet no longer stand on the old ground,
We are being sucked in by the breath of the Lord of the Wind."
The red fog is not just blind weather,
This is the sweat of the Lord in Red who reigns,
Intertwining their souls like a spider's web.
"Look ahead," whispered the horse in horror,
Where the trees begin to bend like fingers,
Pointing downwards, towards the waiting Innererde.
Nestor saw his silver armor rust instantly,
Not with water, but with invisible sin,
As they crossed the threshold of hell.
"Guda, The Dark Light, protect this wanderer,"
Nestor's prayer evaporated into black smoke in the air,
When reality cracks, and they begin to fall silent.