Dead. Dead. Dead. A scene played behind her sleeping eye over and over again, a nightmare: Let is dead. Murdered. Dead. And it shifts, the face of her partner, their locked eyes: fear, worry, uncertainty.

It fades to black, and she hears herself scream.

Dead. Dead. Dead. It repeats. Let is dead. Murdered. It echoes in her skull like a dull chanting, and she tires of it—over, and over, and over again... Until, in the midst of her suffering, her descent into chaos, the feeling of her partner draws near. Ellie? she wonders in the black sleep, and for once in some two-hundred thirty years, her nightmare falters.

Ellie? the name tugs at her, the presence close enough to stir her sinking mind back toward the surface. Ellie, Ellie don't leave, but she cannot speak. She is not whole. She is dead.

Dead. Dead. Dead. Reverting, losing control again, back into the deep dive of corruption. Let is dead.

But no, again, she is stirred. Ebbing and flowing, like peaceful waves, except she embraces the pull of the ocean and fights her way into the sea. Ellie! She knows. They are Bonded, she could not forget. She would never forget. Ellie. The nightmare grips her ankles and pulls her back to shore.

Dead. Dead— Fear. Worry. Uncertainty.

The chaos radiation swells and her chrysalis cracks, seeping its oiled ichor down the wall of the Womb until, finally, she emerges: darkened skin and long, white hair contrast each other, a single pink eye glaring out into the voidlight of Draco, the other covered by corrupted Obsidian. Otherwise, she is naked, streaks of oil sizzling off of her skin, scarring and then healing. A hand clutches her lower belly. That's not right. The other hand clutches her head, feeling the unknown growth of stone there, touching the area her eye should be.

"What the fuck is this, Tamulus," she croaks, angry, her vision catching onto the Black Spire. And then she remembers: dead. Let had been murdered. Tamulus left them. "Fuck." How long had she been in her chrysalis? And better yet, where the fuck was she? The last things she remembered were...

Dead. Dead. Dead.

She shakes her head. Something is beckoning to her, but she cannot place it. Lazily, she glances in its direction, but it is far away from her so she determines she has to travel. At that moment, an additional item falls from her chrysalis and hits her head with a thump. With a snarl, she turns to confront it and finds that it had been her staff, although the stone it once held was blackened, also corrupted; it sits as if repulsed from the wood that housed it, floating free in its crescent bed-like swoop. Whatever. She'd investigate all this strange shit later.

Wherever she ended up seemed somewhat void of life at the moment, although something told her it was abnormal. That worked for her. She picks up her staff and uses it as a crutch for the first few steps before she feels comfortable with her footing, and then uses it only periodically.

She'd make her way to the source of magic that called to her, but she could not scratch the itch that was her partner's reservoir. Here, in this strange place? she would think.

Fear, worry, uncertainty.