His mind was still, but his body was tense and burned like fire. He was on his guard, wary, and did not trust his surroundings. Statues surrounded him, and wicked sandstone gargoyles leered over him. All tongues and scales and horns, finished to an incredible level of detail by the artisans and craftsmen of this distrustful place.

The room was cold and the air seemed close. His armour's internal barometer was reading off its scale. Somehow, a dozen of earth's atmospheres were pressing down on him. Stifling, and oppressive as he walked. This entire environment is oppressive! He thinks to himself. It is deathly silent, with nothing but the crunching of his armoured boots and the tap, tap, tap of trickling drops of water to break the silence. His mind was still, but this veteran of two dozen battles' instincts were screaming out in warning. It was too dark, too quiet. So dark that he was already relying on infrared scanners in order to see his surroundings.

His new 'allies' had promised him safety, sanctuary. But he knew better. Knew that they could not be trusted. A handgun was already waiting in his hand. He had his duties. And as black shadows, long and spindly in the evening sun continued to envelop and dance around him, he reminded himself once more of why he was here. He had his duties. To complete the mission, protect his friends and comrades. To reach his objective point and ensure the safety of the others until that missions' final end.

Even so, he knew he should not be here. Knew that he was not safe. With walls and a forest of twisting, sculptured pillars to his left and right, no less than seven strides away on either side, he was wary. And knew that attack was imminent. He had no intel, no idea what he was up against. And no guarantee that a lone soldier would survive whatever came at him. He was alone, and his AI was not there to aid him. He had left her behind, and entrusted her safety with the others. Despite protests, he would not risk her down here. In hostile and unknown territory.

No he would not risk her.

What was down here anyway? What had the master of these lands wanted him to see, down inside the Temple of the Red Fingers? As he walked onwards, staring forwards towards the end of the room, he thought perhaps that he might have discovered the reason why. After for what had seemed an age, he finally stopped. The walls and pillars had encroached even closer. Only two meters away on either side. To his back and sides were shadow, and nothing of interest and danger. To his front was also shadow. But there was something else to. Something that as the battle-hardened warrior gazed at, he could not help but feel icy dread seep into his mind and heart.

Something was out of place. Beyond the walls and pillars and gargoyles were fine crafted standing stones and obelisks. They were brightly painted and looked occult, but none of the objects looked out of place amongst the general aesthetic of his surroundings. They were engraved, etched with strange runes and ancient symbols. Contributing to the occult, and almost pagan feel of the place. There was a domed, Romanesque shrine, and an offering table inside: A grey slab of granite rock. Waist high and rectangular, reminding the Spartan of pool and billiards tables that he had seen in some ships and bases of the UNSC.

There were empty standing torches, and smaller torches attached via hooks hanging against the walls. The latter made of wood and rope in contrast to the tall metal plinths that stood at the table at each of its corners. All ready to be lit it seemed at any given moment. And yet none of these things felt out of place. It was what lay beyond this shrine that spooked him. A massive, metallic ring with engraved cover stones, fashioned it seemed from marble, steel, quartz gem and onyx stone. A ring indeed it was, hollow in the centre, built into the end wall of the building he felt trapped in. It seemed almost as if the 100 foot temple that had taken a generation to build, had been constructed around this single thing. The artefact was astonishing, a work of art. Polished black, and deeply unnerving to stare at for reasons he could not rationalise.

And then, whist the warrior mused, he heard it. Wooden panels closed above him, plunging the temple into darkness. Then a single long, and breathless gasp. And with a sharp and triumphant roar from his left, they were all of them on him.

Decades long training kicked in, and he opened fire on them. His pistol kicked and barked. Sprinting, towering hostiles screamed and cried. High millimetre rounds punching through the oppressive air, lighting his visor, punching through skin, bone and flesh with equal ease.

His nerve was cool, but his mind swam. There were dozens of the monsters. On his 2 O'clock, 6 O'clock, 2, 8 and now his twelve! Coming from all sides. How in hell had he not detected them? No more than savages, and yet all his sophisticated tools had failed to find them. None of his eyes and other senses had seen them or alerted him of their presence. Even his motion tracker seemed blind to them.

The first that came he brought down in a couple of shots. Both to the head, liquidizing the brain. Then two more, and another two, until swarms of the vile and braying creatures were running towards him. For every one he took down, more always appeared out of the shadows. And it was not long before, even with his rifle drawn, they had overwhelmed him.

Master of war, child of the UNSC, defeated and beaten by a swarm of superhumanly strong monsters that punched and pounded upon him. Draining his shield in seconds, piling on top of him and forcing him to his hands and knees. Then onto the floor completely. He heard clunks as his equipment was stolen from him, knives, grenades, all now out of his reach. Thick set arms clawed out and grabbed at him. He winced as he felt his legs being pushed sideways, hyperextended, in pain, and then heard the crunches and pops as his knees and ankles dislocated and broke. Powerless to stop all this from happening to him.

As if by some silent or unseen signal, the rabble of Nimmah stepped back as one, all but three. And those three that were remaining grabbed him, by the soldiers and arms, and threw him away from them. Sailing through the air, he hit the ground hard, rolling over and over like a human barrel. When he came to a halt, he tried to move, to get up. Needed to if he was going to survive this. It was futile. The Spartan was astonished that the unshielded, naked Nimmah could operate in such a dense, and hostile atmosphere.

Two more Nimmah came and forced him up, pushing him down onto his destroyed knees in a kneeling position. Head and soldiers bowed, they snarled sadistically as they heard the man beneath the armour grunt ever so slightly in discomfort. Stubbornly defiant.

As the Spartan looked back, his heart skipped a beat. The entire building, with its many statues and forests of pillars was filled with the hunched and hulking monsters. Pressed together at the shoulders, heaving as steam and vapour poured from their red hot cores. There was absolutely no way he could escape from this place. And the walls of the windowless walls of the Temple were too thick for him to get a signal to his comrades. He was as good as dead.

He turned again, looking forward now. The Nimmah had him pinned down, and once he so much as glanced at the circular artefact ahead, they held his head in place. It was curious, as he stared once more at the strange and unsettling idol, there was another part of him that seemed entranced, and captivated by the circle of metal and crystal. Transfixed by it, and closer than ever before, he noticed further details. The runes and carvings of strange beasts and creatures, of warriors and ancient runes with meanings long since forgotten by all who lived. The air seemed to dance and quake around its circumference. The object pulsed with energy, like a heartbeat. And it hummed with whatever otherworldly energy concealed within.

It was then he noticed it, that his suits barometer was falling at an exponential rate. It was as if the intense pressure within the room was being siphoned away to somewhere new. Still seeing in infrared, his vision became one of dazzling white as every torch within the room suddenly exploded into life. His visor spectrum automatically switched to the visible spectrum, and his world was plunged into a warm orange glow. Now able to see every detail of the artefact, his jaw dropped.

His armour's barometer had now fallen and stabilized at 1117 millibars, close enough to normal atmospheric pressure. But that wasn't why the Spartan was so shocked. For he knew where the rest of the pressure had gone. A stable bubble of super dense air was suspended around the hollow centre of the artefact. Spinning, flat and boiling. Almost like a mirror. Held in place by physics beyond his understanding.

The energy inside the room was electric. The torches burned and roared with fire, the Nimmah surrounding him chanted and roared in euphoria, and three hundred powerful voices shook the surrounding pillars and walls. And the bubble of air, like a lens, continued to flatten and condense before them.

"This is a Palantir" A voice chanted inside the soldier's mind. "A tool through which knowledge can be leaned, futures be seen, and through which energy and power can be channelled through upon command." And then as if upon command, every torch within the room went out, and every voice other than that of the struggling Spartan's fell completely silent.

There was no noise, no movement, no light, none from anywhere. His world plunged into pitch black, and he fell completely still. His shield was running at 100%, armour perfectly intact, and yet a nagging sense informed him that none of the above would protect him from this world anymore.

The silence couldn't last forever. And it didn't. With a howl and a boom, the ringed Palantir, thought lost since eons long ago, burst into life. Like a portal, red light and energy burned forth from its centre. 300 panting Nimmah squinted in the gloom, and the Spartan's shield shone as heat pounded against it. As the blinding, hellish light began to dim, and his shield stopped depleting, the old soldier gazed a final time into the heart of the suddenly formed vortex. Swirling red and crimson as his shield began to recharge.

And then he saw it.

A great Eye, lidless, wreathed in flame.

And with his protective cocoon charged at maximum, Fredric's eyes slammed shut, and he screamed in absolute and uncontrollable agony...