This was a world woven from smoke and mirrors.
If the mind willed it, it existed; if the mind drifted into emptiness, it ceased to be. For Orion, this concept was intuitive. I think, therefore I am. Perception defined reality; to move, to feel, to desire—these were the anchors of truth. Therefore, this descent into endless, suffocating darkness, this freefall through the void, was as real as the ground beneath one's feet.
"Welcome to the Dreamlands, the realm of Nightmares."
Orion opened his eyes, momentarily disoriented.
More accurately, the vessel of the Death-Soul Touch opened its eyes, staring blankly at the colossus before him. It was a swordsman, built like an iron tower. He bore a massive shield on his back, and his hands rested on the pommel of a greatsword driven into the earth. Standing nearly twenty-five feet tall, he resembled a statue carved from the bedrock of the world.
