Osa found himself standing waist-deep in something that wasn't quite liquid and wasn't quite solid. The substance was amber-colored, thick as honey but somehow more viscous, clinging to his skin with an oily persistence that made his stomach turn. The chamber around him was perfectly circular with smooth walls that curved up and away, impossible to climb.
"What is this stuff?" he muttered, trying to lift his arm through the syrupy mass. The movement required tremendous effort, like trying to swim through molasses, and the substance seemed to resist every motion with deliberate malevolence.
The amber liquid had an unnatural warmth to it, almost body temperature, which somehow made it more disturbing than if it had been cold. It clung to his clothes, seeping through the fabric to coat his skin with a film that felt wrong, invasive. When he tried to wipe some of it from his hands, it only spread further, sticky and persistent.
