Ben looked around at the small group that'd gathered about, all of them stepping forward, willing though skeptical. A shallow smile rose on his lips. "Thank you for your willingness, my compatriots. I shall endeavor to answer your questions in the simplest manners possible." Ben stepped forward, reaching into a pouch tied to his belt. From the pouch emerged a twisted chain of inky black metal attached to a glass sphere that pulsed with some sort of minor enchantment. "This icon was taken from a fellow cleric, a votary of Narsan, a minor deity of dreams. This is what shall convey us to the realm of our temporarily shared enemy." Ben continued. "You see, I offer no guarantees of sanity, but I am a man of my word. Not a scratch will reach your bodies in this realm."

Ben returned to the stool he'd been sitting on earlier. He shuffled through papers, pulling out a small envelope that was marked in plain script: "Benjamin." He ripped it open, taking a set of small cards inscribed with appropriate incantations to activate the icon of Narsan. He distributed them in turn to each member of the party, from the brooding man in the hat to the soul-snake woman. "Speak these words after I activate the talisman. I advise you sit on the floor as well, for you tend to spasm a bit as your mind fights the process. At least the first few times that is."

Ben ushered the group into a small circle and sat in the middle of it, having moved his stool out of the way. He hung the chain and orb from a small metal stand and muttered a prayer to whatever god was listening. More for comfort these days than for an actual blessing.

"And so, we begin. I warn you again, it can be deeply unpleasant the first time." Finishing his words, Ben drew forth a needle and pricked his thumb, pressing it to the glass orb. A sacrifice of self for the betterment of others, the priest had said. He winced as he felt blood rush out of his thumb, spidery lines of darkness tracing themselves through his veins as Narsan's power was channeled through him. The light in the room dimmed, the fire seemingly growing farther away by the second. A dull roaring would fill the ears of those gathered, each in turn experiencing a sense of nausea and odd detachment as their consciousness was ripped from their bodies and flung out into the void between real and unreal.


The roaring subsided, and Ben's vision cleared. He stood up, reaching out for anything to stabilize his aching joints. His hands met a wall, one far too wet and malleable to be stone. He looked up, eyes fixing themselves on a solid barrier of what looked like congealed oil, though it was far from black, closer to a sickly tan. He snorted. "Ah, which one of our twisted minds dreamt this into existence?" He asked himself. Looking down, he sighed. The floor was seemingly solid, but was pitch black and glassy, reflecting the light, which shone from lanterns suspended overhead. Ben resolved to sit about and wait, hoping the crew had not abandoned this cause.