Phase IV: The mud sucks and spits as each heavy foot pushes through its membrane. The barbarian mimics the sound of the crude as he retracts a trail of mucus back into his left nostril. Noxious bubbles burp and burst at the surface of the rot. Ragged remains of foliage long dead sparsely interject the minimal landscape like wooden skeletons reaching toward a godless sky. Terradon skinks shriek atop arthritic branches, starving to death amid the putrefaction of the accursed terrain. Their bellows explode and die as frosted gales sweep them away. There is only forward and the muck cannot deter the traverse. The frigid wind bites into the bare thighs of the Sumerian and is immediately abolished by his stubbled grimace. He carries on. He must find her. He must save this land. The distance between the stinging edge of Glasir and the throat of The Sorceress draws ever closer. The barbarian throws the fur cloak back across broad shoulders as ice begins to pour down from the sky. Some vile curse to the land. Nothing grows here. All that can survive in this wretched place are malformed and mutated cretin. Surely the work of evil incarnate. Surely an apocalyptic landscape wrought through the influence of The Sorceress. With each step the mud envelopes the matted fur boots of the Sumerian. He squints his eyes as the cold streaks tears down his scarred cheeks and the discharge mixes with the icy precipitation from above. His teeth chatter in erratic rhythms against the slowing beat of his heart. Between sloppy steps the barbarian’s eye captures something else emerging from the stench in his periphery. A tangled mess of worming tendrils bursts from the rot and wraps around the massive, quaking bicep of the warrior. The barbarian gnashes his teeth as the poison from the grasp begins to enter his frozen veins. The cold has made him careless, but he is almost there. It doesn’t matter now. A battle cry only ever heard by those now residing at the table of Valholl have witnessed echoes from the brute as he pulls his axe, Glasir, from his back and slices through the mess of ebony worms. Some sad excuse for gore sizzles as it hits the squishy ground below and the mass of louse begins to reform into a hulking behemoth. The barbarian knows his attempts to vanquish the foe are futile. Glasir’s might is true but this wretched thing cannot be smote for it does not live and breathe as most. It is no more tangible than a plague, a virus swept through the land. No, the only way to deliver this heaping rot to its final resting place is to go to the source. The Sorceress must be destroyed. So flee he does. His calves burn as he plunges and retracts each hearty step through the frosted swampland. He can feel the poison coursing through his veins as his pulse increases and the frigid air burns his lungs. It’s not much further now and the frozen tower stands before him as the sickening curse nips at his heels. He must reach The Sorceress, he must vanquish the pestilence from this land. Only then will he allow himself to die and join his brethren at the table of Valholl. The entrance to the glacial monolith is within the barbarian’s grasp quickly due to the shear strength and determination of the wild man. His boots are removed by the thickening muck, now above his knee, as he draws closer to the doorway. He shouts and spits and swings his axe wildly behind him as the lumbering mass of worms plunges toward him. Glasir’s edge buys him just enough time to push open the gate and fall inside the perilous void of the tower of The Sorceress. There is cold here like no other. The frost on the outside is welcomed when compared to where the barbarian has found himself. The bottoms of his now bare feet instantly become numb and all of his extremities blush in violets and blues. The only thing reminding him he has not succumb to a frozen demise is the pain of the poison still coursing through his veins. He carries on. He must find her. He must save this land. The barbarian lumbers up the ice covered marbled stairway. With each step up the temperature within the tower seems to lower. The monolith is erected from strange magic unknown to the Sumerian. The interior is built of sharp dark edges and strange coiling filigree. Torches are illuminated in shining green fire that is cold to the touch. Everything seems to be forged of steel and humming as if life courses through this demented structure. Strange magic indeed. He continues his trek upward to meet The Sorceress. Only once she has been banished from this mortal realm will he permit himself to succumb to the cold death. Dragging Glasir up the last frozen step, the barbarian stands at the final chamber at the top of the tower. The Sorceress dwells within. There is no hesitation as the barbarian bursts through the threshold of the throne room. Glasir shrieks as it’s heavy blade is dragged along the frigid floor. More strange magic litters the chamber. Chirps without birds, glinting stars embedded into walls made of armor, strange illuminated runes scribed upon every surface. The brute is drawn to the center of the room by a glowing crystal ball resting atop some wicked pedestal. In an instant the rugged hands of the Sumerian have been planted upon the glistening orb. He cannot seem to recall the moments before the action or what hex had driven him to such a halfwitted gesture. If the barbarian knew anything it was to not touch such strange magic, and yet, here he stood affixed to the menacing crystal. As he begins to pull away from the orb, inky tentacles burst from the pedestal wrapping themselves around his pulsing forearms. The barbarian belts out in pain as the worming mass pours more poison into his bloodstream. The Sumerian’s body begins to shut down but his will isn’t as easily matched. He begins to tear away at the writhing foe with his teeth like a trapped vermin gnawing away it’s own appendage to spring a trap. The cur only tighten their grip. The barbarian’s eye is caught by someone approaching. A red gown emerges from the void of the chamber. The Sorceress is here. The brute gives out another futile war cry. The worms tighten further fixing his grip to the crystal ball. The Sorceress nears as a smile parts her wretched face and within her red lips seem to be writhing, fleshy things worming within the now exposed cavity. His eyelids become immeasurably heavy and begin to flutter. An unnatural lightning begins to streak across the room. The barbarian gazes into the crystal ball to see a swirling mass of stars and clouds wrapping about within. A window. Some sort of projection. The flashes begin to increase in rate as spit falls from the agape mouth of the Sumerian. Just before the drool lands on the glassy surface of the crystal ball, time itself seems to slow and all together stop. Lightning cracks again but the barbarian is no longer in the domain of The Sorceress. Rain beats down onto his back. He lies in an alleyway littered with bottles. He rolls to his side and begins to heave. He stumbles to his feet as the rain washes the fresh vomit down his chest. He walks awkwardly like a new born giraffe propping himself up against the wall as he moves down a path seeking shelter from the storm. Down the path, the bloated carcass of a rat swells with moisture as gross, inky worms writhe throughout its lifeless corpse. The barbarian remembers the menacing smirk of The Sorceress and begins to retch once more. He can smell the burn of tobacco drawing him to some strange colored lantern further down. A doorway opens as he approaches and the barbarian falls through the passageway of an obscure tavern and without hesitation, vomits once more. “Hark! Weary traveler! I be the big squeeze, the big squeeze is where ye be!”