The water went up to her ankles, cold, dark, and loud. Without care, her steps would slosh,

threatening to reveal her position to whatever lurked ahead. Crouching behind a rope-covered barrel,

Nessica felt the floor gently move under her feet

as the whole room creaked and groaned. She steadied herself against the wall and noticed a curve

to the wood she didn't recall from the outside. Focusing, the briny scent of seawater filled her nostrils,

followed by the damp, sharp bite of mildew

and decay. Her long, pointed ears trained on the space beyond the crates and barrels that

separated her from the presumed dangers within, yet only the languid moans of the beams and boards

returned. Looking back for the window she climbed through, Esika found instead a

small porthole no bigger than a barrel wheel. The environment appeared to her eyes in nothing but shades

of grays and blacks, telling her that despite the pale twilight punctuated by bursts of industrial

flame outside, inside this place, there was no light source, natural or

otherwise, to give color to her sight. Just darkness. She felt herself shiver once more as the cold

soaked her boots and the water crept up her legs. With great intention she methodically slid one foot

forward, taking care not to break the

surface and splash. The other followed, equally slow and steady. Using her left hand as a guide,

she crept along the row of storage toward a door. Her right hand firmly gripped the dagger

given to her by the gargoyle doctor called Heathor. As they rushed over to

this place from his office across the bogs, the surgeon warned her about the illusions. The reality of

whatever you encounter inside that shack will vary in its intensity. But no matter how vivid it seems,

you must know it is not truly real.

Not truly real, she repeated in her head as her hand closed on the rough edges of a rusty doorknob.

...