you slash wildly at the approaching tendrils, but it does nothing. They wrap around your legs and climb up your body, constricting.
You slash the poker at the face, tearing the fragile skin from the hooks with a sound akin to the screech of tearing metal.
The tendrils vanish, sending you reeling face first into the sludge, a good bit getting in your mouth. There are not words to describe the rancid flavor filling your mouth.
Your ears are filled with the sound of thousands of tortured screams, the pain of your headache knocking you unconcious.
You awake with a start some time later from a nightmare. A man in a black robe had taken a knife and sheered off your face, replacing the one on the hooks you destroyed.
Shakily you climb to your feet, the poker impaled on the carpet a distance away, the ground around it scorched badly and still smoking, the smell of burned human flesh thick in the air.
Your face hurts and you feel sick, having swallowed some sludge.