[i][b]— Entobalti, “Kitty Hell” — the Traeculam[/b][/i]

[center][img]https://www.lagedorre.net/rp/Tawhaki-focus.png[/img][/center]
A flick of his claws, his eye watchful for any flaws — a purr of satisfaction, and Tāwhaki announces, [i][color=f26522]“My shift is over, follow if you dare!”[/color][/i] and dashes neath Ilaria’s angelic robe and toward a new portal, a hypnotic liquid vortex large enough for the pair to pass.

Before visions twist to shape beyond the crimson-inked eddy of his own demonic energy, the strong scent of Entobalti lashes his feline nose. Wistful thoughts find their foothold, and he grins wickedly. Soon, he can taste it: acrid, rotten, robust; a vivid retelling of an exploded corpse on a colossal scale tinged with salt, myrrh, musk, and castoreum; a fishmonger’s rotten, violated, pestilential cervix. Alighting on an exposed nerve, he feels the twitch, the snap, the song of bedlam resonating throughout this vast and ever-shifting hipasia of horrors. 

[i][color=f26522]“Enjoy the view while it lasts,”[/color][/i] Tāwhaki taunts.

Not bothering to look back, he stridently high-steps onward, each claw viciously raking the taut, nervous membrane of their bridge through a patina of sanguine mist. It shudders, and one can almost imagine a distant, voiceless, spiritual scream, but it is difficult to pick out through the incessant background roar of agony that washing over Entobalti in an endless, exquisite wave. It struggles to lift them over a pool of noxious, yellow, bubbling bile, but is too weak to fully support their weight. It fails, underbelly striking the pool and recoiling from the agonizing acidic touch. Vile steam rises up to greet them, and Tāwhaki  pauses. He sniffs the air, eyes drifting in a direction outside of traditional dimensions. Sinisterly extending a single claw, he swipes his forearm across their flesh-bridge, severing the wailing tissue. No longer taut, it snaps and shivers, flinging them through a noxious, jaundiced void of choking, gasping, pleading voices.

Landing in a muck of crust-layered blood, they behold before them a monolithic minaret composed of trembling muscles and viscera. What look like the outer layers of eyes, peeled precisely and surgically off the surface, scales the exterior, glossy, blinking. 

Tāwhaki is about to speak, then a parade of ghastly phantoms manifests from nought as the world around shifts to incorporeal, a mode spectral, translucent. Shrieking, they hiss, vomiting and ejecting ectoplasm at Ilaria. Before they get the satisfaction of seeing their mark, a great translucent tentacle strikes through the caked, dessicated film, dragging them down and screaming. 

[i][color=f26522]“Hmm. Lovely,”[/color][/i] sniffs Tāwhaki says in his unhurried, unconcerned fashion, [i][color=f26522]“Now then, you understand that as an employee of the Asomatous Détente & Terrestrial Customs, this is as far as I can take you without risking my clearance. Give the package to Balem, and they will send you to Aeternus. Ciao!”[/color][/i]

With that, Tāwhaki leaps through a small portal, most likely to continue his shift.

[center][b]⇝⛧⇜[/b][/center]