I can't think. I can't think straight. This thing isn't helping me, it isn't helping me. I can't keep climbing. I can't see, I can't see anything but shapes - they're coming - I have to kill them all. I have to kill them all. I have to-
Velentham clamored along the ledges of the plane of Malbolge. It was only due to the quick thinking of his father that he missed being driven over by rock slides. They couldn't fly in the whirling eddies that whipped around the sides. He was slowly growing more mad and he knew it.
The trek had taken them full on two months already with very little rest. While his father stayed relatively sane, the Nine Hells was the one thing that threatened to break Velentham's sanity. At times, Gilean would enter into his mind, calming him - other times, nothing but the dark shapes of evil would enter into his glowing field of vision.
Mournful cries would periodically fill the air, echoing off of the mass of steep slopes - all coming from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. They only stopped to rest for Gilean, who having a part human body required regenerative sleep. As the priest slept, his father soothed him, but each day brought new struggles.
