She floats atop a dune in Oblivion, the omnipresent red sun peeking over her hooded shoulder through the rainclouds and dust, feet limp, toes pointed toward the ochre sand. The hood is black, but dotted by an ever-moving pattern seemingly made up of clusters of stars plucked from the heavens, hanging down over her slender, almost gaunt shoulders, down to just past the knees. The only other clothing she wears is a pair of loose white linen pants, tied around her waist with a hemp cord, knotted tightly at the navel with a marble button, and a wrap of binding rags extending from just below the ribs, to the root of each armpit. Each arm sports a heavy assortment of bangles, beads, and wooden bracelets, from wrist to sunburnt elbow, with her right arm cradling a long crooked driftwood staff, worn smooth and shiny along its midriff from eons of handling by clenched fists, from the top of which dangles a whip-like bundle of bleached leather strips, its butt splintered and worn. Her face is in backlit shadow, long and wavy black hair falling over the left-hand side, spilling backward over her shoulder, leaving only half of a smirk, canine biting at a cracked bottom lip, and one bagged grey eye left to stare back at me. With an open left palm facing toward the sky, she bends down toward me, reaching, as if beckoning me to clasp her hand in mine.
"There's a purportedly existant plane that's only known as 'Oblivion'—something of an anti-all, i.e., another form of unreality. Ancient texts call it 'the undeath', but under modern theistics it'd probably more accurately be considered as an analog of Hell.
The world inside Oblivion has been described as a wasteland composed of endless rolling ochre dunes, shattered stone ruins, a constant low red sun, and a chaotic weather system that brings either neverending cold rains, or hot choking dust. Time has no meaning there. Those who claim to have seen Oblivion go on to explain with rabid fervor that each grain of sand in the dunes contains its own entire universe, the desert as a whole thereby containing infinite sets of every bit of entropy that ever was or ever will.
A number of souls whom have broken the cycle of rebirth, and have thus been damned to Oblivion, the end of all ends, exist there in some form. Only the strongest possess corporeal bodies, existing as quasi-demigods at the feet of whomever reigns above, but only fewer still are recognizeable as what we would call 'human'. It's every soul for itself, a neverending nightmare as the price for transcendence."
