Description
The rolling dunes
Level 407 is regarded as a barren landscape filled with light grey gravel. The sky is a constant hazy grey, devoid of stars. Rains sweep the hills despite the lack of clouds. A dim light shines through the foggy horizon. The gravel is of ovoid stones and shattered glass. Mountain ridges pierce the gravel's surface, forming low peaks.
A howling wind constantly blows through the level, accompanied by distant thunder. The hills dampen sounds, rendering noises such as footsteps or voices nearly inaudible. A stiff breeze drives the cold deep into your skin.
Like many other worlds, you cannot meet another. All are alone.
The Meadows
Unfortunates who have remained too long are whisked away and lost. When you are whisked away, the sky dims and you are enveloped in blanketing darkness. Everything is blotted, and the dark consumes your vision. The feeling is like a million needles tear through your body. Once the blindness has dispersed, the level is the meadows.
The meadow is stale; no grass has grown here for centuries. The sky strobes between black and white, blinding those who look into it. No wind blows, and dust permeates the air. The grasslands stretch infinitely. They remain frozen in time. Small skeleton groves are scattered about the plains, each consisting of scores of mummified husks of oak trees.
The silence is deathly. Sound is a mirage created by the slowly dying brain. There is no ring in your ears, no voices to pierce the wind, and no swaying leaves.
An effervescent black disc endlessly hangs low in the sky. It produces no light and moves lazily through the horizon. It has no purpose; it is simply decorative in this painted world.
Unfortunate Situations
The only known survivor of Level 407 provided the following. His accounts have shed light on its dangers. It is impossible to tell if he will ever recover.
What I could bring back:
My Reverie
Each passing hour is a waste. I cannot expect anything, and I cannot produce any result. I walk in circles trying to comprehend what I am to do. Perhaps it is human nature to need something more than just life. I like to imagine a perfect world in this broken one to pass the time, but I'm always interrupted by watching myself break.
When I look down at my body, I can barely recognise myself as human. My arms are missing chunks, my hands are missing fingers, and look like they are made of rectangles. I can still see myself gripping things with my fingerless hands. I can still see myself walking on my broken legs. It has been terribly long since I have even seen my face. I expect it to be beyond recognition.
Each time I try to call out, I can't hear anything. My voice has deserted me too. I can barely remember the faces I wish to hold again. I hurt knowing each time I try to call out, I call out for them. I can picture the names, yet they remain on my tongue.
Sometimes, I try to envision the birds chirping and the sun shining as I walk through the groves. But as I look through the trees, I cannot see anything perched, trying to enjoy what should be a sunny day, or anything scurrying amongst the undergrowth dancing with the dew. I can't hear her laugh or call. And, as I close my eyes to stoop down to caress her hair, I remember she isn't here.
When was the last time I saw morning grass? I miss morning grass, the pearls of water that roll off it and its iridescent shine. I miss the butterflies fluttering in the wind and the squirrels playing amongst the canopies. I miss the warmth of the sun and the beautiful landscape it grew. I miss watching her crest the hill when she ran home from school. Now, as I walk to the hills, silence greets me.
I can't feel anything either. With each passing day, I feel as though my thoughts continue to swirl into the maelstrom of uncertainty. When I place my hand on anything, I can't feel anything; I just know I am touching something. But I can see the dripping blood.
Whatever primal urges I had during my travels, too, have parted with me. My stomach no longer craves food, and my tongue waters. My mind wants nothing to entertain itself. All I long for is home. I try to think of what words to say to her when I return, yet no words come. Two weeks ago, I think, I fell down a hill, and I felt no pain. Does she even remember me?
I have been caught in a riptide. I cannot escape. I don't want to leave anymore. My hope for her is what drove me so far, and now I have nothing. I can't want to leave. It has been what I can assume is twenty thousand decades since I have seen anything living. I lost track of time a long while ago, and even then, it's hard to know with that fake sun just drifting in the sky.
My mind is becoming as empty as this world. My brain feels colourless and dull. Everything is nothing. I can barely see what's in front of me. Everything is collapsing.
