[He is falling into the darkness, towards the heart of Zodiark. All around he can feel the ancient Primal's energy pulsating. Voices cry out in the black, desperately trying to convince him to not do what he is about to do. But the dead hold no power over him, he will seize control of the Primal and turn his wrath on the warriors above.

Someone will slay him, then the star will come undone. The heavens will open and sheer black despair will tear the souls of the living apart. They will witness a hell of his own making and they will die, they will all die and it will beautiful.

Fandaniel hurls his will into the shadows and feels the constellation of souls within Zodiark recoil in horror.

Mine! The Primal is mine now!

Then, suddenly, the darkness around him seems to ripple and shift. He can feel the souls spin away from him followed soon after by the energies of Zodiark. The black closes in on him.

No, this isn't how it's supposed to go, this is all wrong, all wrong...

He reaches out a hand, not knowing if he is reaching up or down anymore. If not for the sickly feeling of motion in his stomach he'd might as well be hanging still.

Something seizes his wrist and pulls him upward. Muffled voices speak and he is rolled onto his side against what feels like earthen tiles. Only now does he realize he is naked and soaking wet. The air is cool on the damp of his skin but he can tell there is a warmth within it. Not the air on the moon... A desert, perhaps?

"He's alive," someone says, and the words gnaw at him.

His lungs are expanding and taking in air, his heart is beating, all sure signs that he isn't dead. One black eye rolls open and he sees the blurred outline of human shapes and torchlight. It is all too much to take in and he closes his eyes again.

Normally he'd throw these mortals away from him, twist them with his magic until they told him why they'd dared to bring him here right when he was about to achieve his magnum opus. But whatever force brought him into this place has stripped him of not just his clothes but his powers. His Ascian essence is still there, he can feel it, but it is distant and remains out of reach no matter how hard he tries to access it. He is trapped in this prison of flesh that had once been named Asahi.

Voices speak above him but he doesn't listen, not even when someone covers his shivering body with a blanket. Maybe if he lies here they will throw him back into the water and he can drown in the depths. It would be so easy to just slip away down there and never awaken again.

The thought is sweet. He imagines dying, his blood cooling, his breath stopping as merciful nothingness closes in. Then he imagines his world, the Source. He imagines its people toppling his spires. He imagines their triumphant, hopeful faces... and it makes him sick! No, he can't die here, not like this. Why should he die but not them? Neither he nor anyone else is worthy of living.

If he has to endure for now he will find a way to fix this. He is nothing if not a patient man, after all.

Yes, it's decided.

He will set his plans back into motion, find another way to destroy all of creation and invite fiery oblivion.

All he has to do is wake up.

With a soft groan he pushes himself upright and the people standing around him back away to give him space. For a moment he sways like a child taking their first steps and he tugs the blanket around himself a bit more tightly before lifting his chin and smiling a black smile at the guards.]

Well! I guess nap time is over. Would you mind repeating all that?

[To his surprise they oblige as they gently lead him away from a deep well and through an underground cavern. He latches on to what bits and pieces of information he can but finds himself distracted as he's ushered past lines of boxes full of machinery. The pieces all look primitive to him, though he can't guess their purpose. If he had the time he knows he could figure it out, he could make those machines sing.

Finally he is led into a sparse barracks bedchamber and a guard holds his arm as he seats himself on the edge of the bed. Once she's satisfied Fandaniel isn't about to tip over she leaves and he tugs his blanket more tightly around his shoulders.

He doesn't move until a new person is led into the room some time later, also wearing a blanket.]

I take it by your clothing, or should I say your distinct lack thereof, that you were pulled out of that well too?

[He frowns and hums thoughtfully.]

Although I do not know this place or its customs. Maybe everyone dresses thus except the guards. If that's the case and you are here to check on me...

I'd like my gruel, please.

[With a cold grin he lifts his bare arms out from under the blanket, hands cupped together as if he's expecting something to be scooped into them.]

[It takes a while for Fandaniel to finally emerge from the room. After a lot of chewing on dark thoughts he decides to explore his new surroundings.

Dressed in drab linens now he pokes around until he hears the distinct din of a training yard. Following the sound brings him to the training grounds. There are men and women sparring against each other and against intricate training dummies. Close by there is an obstacle course.

Fandaniel pulls a wooden sword from the weapons rack and tests its heft. It is sturdy but he could hardly kill anyone with it, which really takes the fun out of carrying it around. He tosses it over his shoulder and starts to whirl and dance his way through the training grounds, not worrying when attacks intended for dummies come dangerously close to hitting him.

He pauses near the first person he sees that looks as out of place as he does, still poised on the balls of his feet with arms outstretched like a danseur about to launch into a routine.]

They have a lot of playthings, don't they? Are they preparing to invade or be invaded?