This place was called the Mists of Creation, but there were no mists. Veiya stood amidst abject whiteness. Her eyes had no place to rest. Even the path behind her was closed. The only sight was of her own body.
She sat, waiting.
Something stung her head, like a small bee. She saw, unbidden, the officious man who had led her to this place.
Another sting. A voice this time. “You lucky applicants are here to enter the Mists of Creation.” He sounded bored. “Most of you will not succeed. I'd imagine,” she remembered that he'd paused to look over the group, “that all of you will fail. The mists demand a certain strength of character, a pedigree, that is hard to find in these benighted times. I haven't witnessed a successful advocate as long as I've maintained this post.”
A sting. She felt anger and frustration. And insecurity. She knew she wasn't supposed to be in here. But how else could she stay safe?
“You have a choice to turn around, to avoid an inescapable death. You'll never again be an applicant. But you'll keep your life.”
The stings came more frequently. Each one elicited a smell, a taste, a sound, a vision, an emotion. It was like someone was rooting around in her mind for memories. Soon she couldn't keep track of the individual sparks. They all ran together into one feeling.
It was of darkness, of hopelessness. Of purposelessness. <Figure out what her past was like>
Another feeling swept her, like a puff of cold air on her forehead. She saw herself exiting the Mists. She saw herself dead. She saw herself slapping the officious man. She saw herself kissing him. <Plant prophecies and red herrings here when you figure them out>
There was one memory she held close. One memory she wouldn't let this force play with. It was too precious and too painful. She held her mind tight whenever she felt the tendrils questing for it. She refused to give in to it.
Her eyes closed, she built a wall around herself. A haven, a place to hide. The light dimmed, but still she felt the questing. She gathered up what strength she had left. The touch and smell and voice she held dear.
She screamed. Her cries echoed into the past and the future. Screams of pain, of joy. Sobs and laughter. They wound together until she couldn't think anymore. Her life, past existence and future possibilities were strung before her. She felt them superimposed on top of her, living every minute she ever had and ever might.
Except the ones she was keeping safe. Those she clutched until they exploded in her mental arms, spreading a wave of mental force before them.
The stings and air were gone. She was one again. She stood on a hill covered in soft black grass. Dark waves lapped the shore. A black-leaved tree shaded her from the dim light. She leaned against it. The bark was soft, covered with a hair-like down. She kissed the bark and took a leaf. The sap smelled bitter, like camphor <verify>.
She took a step forward.
She returned to the chamber. The officious man, sitting slumped in a chair, bolted upright. “Welcome,” he said after a long pause. “My lady.” He bowed.