Dream is a strange land at the best of times, it goes without saying; but certain places are so bizarre in construction that one cannot but shrug their shoulders in hopeless confusion. The Underbath is one of those places; a haunting labyrinth of bathroom stalls, many layers thick, many miles deep. Read on, if you must. Don't get lost.
The Underbath:
Where Plumbing Goes to Die
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The Dreamlands are a place of variety, of laws bent and unbent and re-shaped until unrecognizable. You might walk from the slopes of Mt. Thorne into the salt flats at Cathad, but upon turning around see only the marshlands of Gybon stretching away behind you. In turning back towards your destination- lo! You have found yourself in the Sands of Nane, lost and desperate. Nothing is permanent; not even location.
Why is it then, that there is one reliable feature of every place in Dream? Always tucked away in the corner of your vision- is that a door? Why, so it is. Where does this go--?
Oh. Nowhere, really. Just a bathroom- and a dingy one at that. A stainless steel basin, a standing shower with a suspicious amount of caulk, a urinal, and around the corner... the same thing. Another urinal, another basin, another grimy showerhead, another corner. Keep going.
You turn the corner one, two three, four, five times- that shouldn't be possible. You should be right where you started, but the door is gone- in its place, an arch of hideous pebbled tile, and through that- infinity. Welcome to the Underbath, a nation in its own right, composed entirely of public bath-houses and restrooms. Miles and miles of labyrinthine hallway, lined on one side with stalls, on the other with basins and mirrors. Don't look in the mirrors. Never look in the mirrors of Dream. That way madness lies.
The stalls begin to change as you move on- older now, with chains instead of levers on the toilets, antiquated faucets. There are people here, even Denizens; though they are scattered, and few of them will speak to a Topsider. They do what all civilised folk do in public restrooms- pointedly avoid eye contact and wash their hands vigorously before moving along. Do they live here? They must. Clothing, as sturdy or intricate as yours or mine, sewn of toilet paper and dental floss. The more fortunate among them have real cloth, traded by an enterprising Topsider for marble or mirror-glass.
Onward, onward. No tiles now, and the fixtures are all broken. But steam rises from below. Not quite enough to create a Mist, by which you might leave this place- but close. Down, down, past marble pillars and abandoned saunas. Reeking men wrapped head-to-toe in tissue try to sell you lost goldfish, twisted metal, bits of hardware, questionably sourced fuel and fertilizer. They grin upon hearing your wish to leave, and direct you to the Temple. What passes for a Temple, down here among the forgotten filth of the world?
Through a sauna door, you can hear laughter. Dancers in the searing fog beckon you onward, and when you emerge, scorched and red and drenched with steam and sweat, you fall at the feet of a huge satyr. Ikelios, King of the Underbath. His revels on this, the lowest level, are indescribable; Denizens and Dreamers alike put aside their differences and enjoy rose-scented waters, whirling hot tubs, misty nymphs bearing golden pitchers and just as swiftly fading into steam. That steam gathers, thickens, almost clots. It's suffocating; it's too hot.
The satyr's laughter- is it merry or cruel? Why are you here? What were you seeking to cleanse yourself of? Is it deceit? Lust? Hatred? Terror? No matter. Breath leaves you. Light leaves you. You are falling, falling- and now you awaken, in bed, drenched in the self-same sweat of the Bath. Don't look in the mirror; you won't like you see.
Until I can get pictures for each of the locations, the Observatory stars will have to suffice. Look out for a change soon!
Return to the Observatory...