A kingdom, one of the few bastions of order within a warped and hostile world. Built from a need for some cause, some banner to serve under, the Nix Lords of times past, and mostly forgotten, built this kingdom into a stronghold, a sanctuary of sorts for those lost. May they been called tyrants in other lands, ruling strict, but here they were the most fair as well compared to the savagery that exists outside its walls.

Within these halls, the current lord, Halloesh, sits upon a throne made in part of gray wood and in the other of purple fabric. The throne was adorned in the chitinous remains of some serpentine creature, it's head, dangling atop the resting rail, had a strange blade held within its jaws, just within the lord's reach. Halloesh himself sat, leaned back and relaxed, a goblet in one hand of some fermented juice of a red fruit that grows in the sands that was deemed, at least, safe enough.

Today he had gathered his most loyal and most subservient. To his side, Cordelia, his most faithful, a form barely identifiable as human, adorned in a purple cotton cloak, body covered in silken cloth, face obscured by a sharp shiny ornamental metal mask where only a gleam of a blue eye is visible, and decorated in blades. She knelt there silently, as best she can without arms. She was always close, possibly the most truly loyal, not forged of fear but longing. A pathetic creature, some say.

"I hear murmurs," he begins, his voice deep and steady, echoing through the chambers and breaking the silence. "...That I am without heir, that I will be the last lord. I will say, that is true."

There is a stir of confusion and disbelief. Even Cordelia shakes. But Halloesh taps the armrest of his throne and returns silence to the room.

"I will be the last lord, the last one of this long cold chapter," he continues, twirling his finger in his goblet slowly. "I had a dream, that the moon falls and the sun rises, that the serpent is torn. As I bring order here, as my fathers before me brought structure in this desolate world, our dream of prosperity shall too be realized. For you see, my most loyal, that in this dream, a great many emerged from the sand, against the Un, against the Ouroboros, and the moon moved and the tides of the abyss stirred and became blue, and light, true light shone through the gray skies. Let it be known again, that I Halloesh will succeed where my predecessors failed, and you, who follow, shall stand tall upon those who fell before you. Our salvation will come soon, by our own hands. And this sword, Void Howl, passed down from the lord before me, is the key."

The Abyss, filled with thick black fluid, so deep, so infinitely deep. Structures in the horizon flicker with ghostly light, of some lingering phantasm of a former glory, now forever partially submerged and unreachable. The Un gather at the shores, shuffling back and forth without direction, eyes blank of various colors within the carved eyeholes of their masks. Directionless humanoid forms, some vaguer than others.

By the shore, gray withered and twisted white plants grow from the black rocks. A purple fruit sprouts from one of the white plants, one of the few sources of color in this monochromatic world, and the Un react almost immediately, and they all lunge towards it, each kicking, biting, and clawing at the other to grab hold of it. The Echo Fruit, as it is called, is said to grow full off memories that flow off the dark waters, refined through the strange plant. As they fight, the fruit is knocked away from the crowd and rolls to the bandaged feet of another figure, dressed in prisoner garb and laden with manacles and broken chains, standing there observing the fight. His mask is more ornate than the others, a fissure in it from some kind of impact, cracks near the mouth forming a crooked grin. They turn to look, as to their horror the figure leans over, and, with his manacle clad hands grips the fruit as best he can and lifts it up.

"Gosh, all this fuss over one berry? Didn't your mommies tell you to share?" a jovial young man's voice emits. He grunts and writhes for a moment, a weird clicking and distortion surrounds him and his right green eye flickers out, and the other, a red one, glows in his left.

"Pathetic, I need not steal memories to make me whole," the figure interrupts himself, now with a colder tone. "Witness what your struggles amount to."

The figure attempts to squeeze the fruit, the Un fall onto the ground in a pile, crawling over one another, whimpering and pleading incoherently, hands out.

"Be not so cruel to them, Engrinn, they know not what they do," a man's voice calls out from a short distance.

The figure, apparently named Engrinn drops the fruit and it rolls to the savage Un, and they return to their struggle over it. Engrinn quickly turns away from them, to another figure seated on a large black stone, tall and lanky, carving a mask with a strange black knife. Many come to know this enigmatic being as OttO, Oh-toe, the mask maker, the seer. His mask, long and birdlike, or mantid, decorated with its large eyes that stare off into different directions, forever fixed gazing off absently.

"You said my name, my name! You know me? Who I am? Tell me, tell me!" the young voice excitedly exclaims, hopping about with hands out like a child wanting a gift.

"I know you by your mask, I carved it, I believe," OttO answers, continuing his carving. "You know how memories are here, fleeting and easily—confused." He chortles as his mask tilts to the side.

"I'm not playing your games, mask maker, you know something and I'll break your hands if your next answer is something cryptic," the cold voice of Engrinn says.

"My my, quite a schism you have, perhaps it is that..." OttO starts saying, putting down the mask he is carving, and suddenly, abruptly, there is a distortion and he's gone, and his long fingers reached around to Engrinn's mask and traces the crack in his mask. "...crack, right here."

Engrinn reacts by shoving against OttO and stumbling away to make distance. His eyes, both, flicker in confusion. He shakes his head as his head shakes violently. He holds his head as best he can, clearly in distress as distorted fragments flutter about his body.

"W̶̻̃ḧ̷̨ ̸̲̍a̵̪̿t̶̝́d̸̳͛ǐ̷͙d̶̢̾ ̵͈͌d̷͕̈́ī̸̙d̴̡̾ ̶̛̣..!" Engrinn shouts in a panicked distorted voice.

"Ah, it seems my prognosis is correct, I can fix it, of course," OttO says.

Engrinn begins to calm, bent over and holding his chest, his shaking eyes fixate on OttO, a confused emotion within them both. "Y̸o̷u̷ ̵c̸a̵n̷?̵"

"I need some materials for such an intricate piece," OttO says, pointing out at the building sunken in the black waters. "Old material... too bad none of us can swim in or or fly over it, hah hah hah! Oh, but I remember something... a Nix lord had a weapon carved from it—perhaps."

"It would... fix me? Make me whole..?" Engrinn says, his voice becoming clear once more and hopeful.

"It would, but getting to it would require getting in, and as you know, you are not Nix... you are Un," OttO says, rapping his long spindly fingers on his head in thought. "Oh, but unlike these poor fellows, perhaps you could lie, befriend one of them and claim to be Nix yourself."

"Lie, but that would be—so easy," Engrinn says, his voice changing mid-sentence. H begins to turn away from OttO, towards the sands of Oblivion. He looks back once more at the mask maker."I retrieve this blade, and you will fix me? No tricks?"

OttO was no longer there, having disappeared without any trace.

"Right," Engrinn utters as he leaves on a trek towards Nix territory.

In these white sands, where a hollow wind blows across the dunes, life stirs in some strange way. Strange insects scurry, twisted animals stalk, and worst among them lies underneath, the spawn of the serpent waits for a terrible rain. But worse yet is what was once human, once Nix, now something else, twisted by the sands beyond recognition. And among these twisted is a feral king above the others. He once had a name, but now he is simply the Alto Diablos, the "Great Devil" of the sands.

Diablos served the previous lord, Halloesh's father, until he sought to make himself an usurper, a revolutionary for his fellow Nix. It was the then younger Halloesh who brought his undoing, striking him down and revealing his plots before his father. He wouldn't be executed, no, far too simple, he would face exile, to live or die in the cruel sands, to feed on the twisted beasts or starve. It changed him, and he became more twisted, and he forgot even his humanity. What still lingers, however, is hate.

"Are you satisfied to sleep forever, oh king of beasts?" OttO's voice calls out, as he appears atop a large dune. The sands shudder and a bulge beneath the sands rises, falls, and grow still again. "Have you fallen so low, devil? Where's your pride? You once sought to bring change, and now you are satisfied to slumber? Perhaps the name Halloesh..."

The sands shake, the bulge beneath the sands rises, and there's a rumble. A large hand emerges, gray skin with long black nails, hardened with chitinous plates, and a form, tall and horrible pulls itself free of the sands, sand pouring off it. A silhouette of a horned head is seen, one broken off. It breathes heavily, resting on its knuckles as it bends over looking down at OttO.

"Ah, so you are awa-" OttO begins, before Diablos quickly raises and brings down its fist upon him, and impact so hard and thunderous it sends ripples across the sand. He raises his fist and looks underneath it to see the crushed body of OttO only to find nothing there. He grunts in confusion.

"Did you know that Halloesh is now lord?" OttO continues, prodding the already angry giant.

"Halloesh..?" Diablos utters, before he audibly clenches his teeth and growls, the most human remaining aspect of him. He raises his head and howls out, his voice growing guttural. "Ȟ̶̤ã̷͚l̵̝̚ľ̵͚ŏ̸̬e̶̘͛s̶̠̀h̴͇͐!̴̣̊"

"Ah yes, you do remember, don't you?" OttO says, now standing upon Diablos's head. "And look, accursed servants of his have entered your domain. You cannot allow yourself to be ousted once again, can you?"

The man in dark robes appeared from nowhere, ignoring any safeguards that may have been in place. He looked about and seemed very confused.

Much of the Un gathered were still fighting amongst themselves over the fruit, but the few that broke off crack their heads in the direction of the newcomer. As if able to sense the presence of his *self*, they shuffled and crawled towards him. Only for the tall form of OttO to come out from seemingly nowhere, just outside the corner of the eye. With outstretched arms he halted the advance of the Un.

"No," he said plainly, and the Un stopped, and surprisingly turned away after gawking at the man a few more times.

OttO then turned about to face the figure and bowed, with his height was almost like a falling tree coming towards him. His masked face was only a foot away when he spoke again, in words he had rehearsed so many times before.

"You are confused, I understand. For whatever means, for whatever cause, you have slipped beyond the cracks of the veil from your reality... into one that should not exist. This is not Heaven, this is not Hell, and you are most certainly not dead. Some call it Nowhere, Nod, The Gray Space, Oblivion, among others," he says, straightening up only to kneel on one knee and held his spindly hand over his chest. "I, OttO, the humble Mask Maker welcome you to the Sands of Oblivion. I can help you acclimate, if you wish, I have many masks for that... or I can direct you to a place where others like yourself have been... displaced. Just know that getting here is easy, leaving is more complicated."

The man, clearly of an elven ancestry shakes his head, the images swimming before his eyes. "I must rest for a moment, as my body and mind take to this gateway. I am confused, for I usually only travel to places of strong magic. Thus I will stay, finding that source."

"Magic?" OttO muttered, deep in thought as he stroked the chin of his unseen face. The eyes of his mask wiggled slightly as an arcane energy caused them to flicker with light. "Ah, I see, I see, you too seek, perhaps what is lost, and you found, here. Here is where things are lost... memories, knowledge... magic, washed here like driftwood. Is how I found my craft, but there are others who found theirs as well, and they were displaced... like you. I bet they have quite the collection..."

"Escape?" the uncomfortably tall masked man says quietly as the last words of Kuakare were spoken. It was as if that thought was something so profound.

The mask of OttO rattled lightly and he paused, frozen in place. He pulled away his hand and held up a finger.

"Ah, yes... yes!" he says, as if a revelation came to him. He points out across the sands, and shifts his head to the side, resting against his outstretched arm's shoulder. "Across the sands there is a great fortress, there lives those like yourself who have come here. Me and my kin are not welcome there... but you? You wouldn't have that problem, they would welcome you! Yes! There in those halls are many things lost that have been gathered, in their own aspirations of escape... and their king? He holds a blade of ancient material, of the oldest magic I know."