Registered, nearing the end of his journey, passes through a number of increasingly strange possibilities.

The possibilities are becoming stranger – farther removed from the conglomerations of worlds through which Reg normally travels. The hej machet is strong and clear in his mind, and he moves quickly through the downpour that is all he can see of the place in which he finds himself.
The rain is cold and hard, obscuring everything around him. There are forms hulking nearby, but they are unrecognisable. The water is falling so fast that he is effectively stepping across a shallow flowing lake, hammered all around by the countless tiny explosions of a billion raindrops.
It is raining so hard he finds himself choking on the water that invades every breath.
The hej machet, seemingly the only dry thing around, sheltering in his head, leads him to a structure that reminds him of a disused stadium. He expects a brief respite as he passes inside, but bizarrely the short tunnel that allows him access to the building has sprinklers recessed into the ceiling - their spray, massed together, mimics the downpour outside.
Laughing, he passes into the centre of the stadium, a place filled with machinery rusting in the mud. He digs into the puddles that grow around his hands, blows the water from his nose as he bends to the earth, and pulls a worn piece of ceramic from the ground.
The rain cleans it in his hands; it glows in his sight, and he pivots into limbo. The immense
- TWIST -
brings both a welcome absence of water and a disturbing sense of the world he is moving into. It has the feel of a possibility filled with poison, with burning, chemicals, and with radiation. With a short grimace he
- TWISTS -
back to the stadium, the change of direction throwing him through the flooded air and into a rusted slab of metal. Wishing he could somehow procure a spacesuit in this place, he instead crawls under one of the derelict machines and spends the next few hours adjusting his body to suit the hostile environment he expects to find.
When he finally pivots back he finds himself in a world that seems more like another planet entirely.
The land is flat and glassy. It is incredibly hot, as if he is being tortured. Gases vent from small holes in the ground. His first breath burns horribly, and so he tries to take small, shallow gasps, holding each one for as long as he can, allowing his body to get the feel of what it must deal with.
The sky seems caught in some sort of hellish twilight, the edge of the immense red sun rolls along most of the horizon - so large that it seems midday would be nothing more than the land melting under its hemisphere filling glare.
Looking around, eyes itching and burning, he wonders how it is that he is still alive here. The huge star and the absence of molten rock burning his ankles seems to indicate that the world on which he stands has become tidally locked to the red giant at the centre of the this solar system. Presenting one side continuously to the sun would lead to metal-vaporising temperatures, and presumably conversely freezing conditions on the planet’s dark side - heat transfer producing weather. He supposes he is standing in a narrow band, perhaps bounded by fields of frozen argon on the night-side and immense storms closer to the day-side ... metal would precipitate from the atmosphere ... perhaps a pinkish-white rain of potassium.
Regardless of the solar system’s history the radiation he is being drenched in is intensely painful. He curses himself, wishing he had scrounged some sort of rudimentary metal umbrella, even something as basic as a sheet of tinfoil would have stopped the shorter wavelengths.
Looking down at the chunk of ceramic in his hand, tinted red in the strange light here, he realises how incongruous it is. Someone, and logically he supposes that someone must have been one of the Stillwatch, or perhaps a distant ancestor of his own race, had placed the fulcrum here. He can feel the next link in this ancient chain push against the hej machet stuck in his mind. It is to his left, not too far, away from the furnace sunset and towards the flattened remnants of a mountain chain on the horizon.
Reg moves off in a daze, some dim part of him deciding not to return to the rain drenched stadium for a radiation shield. He feels as if he must simply move forward, continue. There is no possibility of failure.
The ritual buried in his head acts as a compass. He moves slowly to avoid breathing too deeply.