Nepal
As Azazel sank on the frigid cavern ground the damp poppy fog engulfed the remaining scrap of conscience he could hope to cling onto. He awoke in a sea of blinding white. The cold, a feeling so foreign since his turning, lay burning on his face and hands. Barely keeping his balance amidst the mighty blizzard and knee deep in oppressing snow masses, he looked around. Mighty brooding mountaintops rose from the white like judging, vengeful giants of old, their gaze fixed at the plateau on which Azazel found himself. At his back though, an even darker silhouette emerged from the biting storm and seemed to draw all light into it's gaping maw. Clinging at the faintest promise of safety, or at least a respite from the elements he fought his way towards this shadow, which he hoped to be a cave or crevice. Almost blind and with fading forces, he finally set his foot inside the shelter. It was warm and quiet. At first. As Azazel regained his sight from the excruciating snowblind he witnessed what he had ventured into. It was an old tibetan temple, at least it had the shape of one, because - there was no doubt - it was constructed entirely out of living flesh and bone. Countless bodies, beast and man, warped and contorted, sewn together in the most elusive manner into the steps and columns, altars and alcoves. Not arbitrarily, but with deviant taste the ornaments of twitching eyes and spasming sinew lined the delicate carvings on the ivory inlays. And he heard them. Every single soul screaming and weeping, not from physical pain, but from the horror of realisation, what their existence and purpose had become. Stepping through these veils of agony Azazel made his way forward, towards the main altar. Captivated by what he saw, constructing in his imagination the brain, the artist of such a powerful chef-d'œuvre in both matter and mind. A tall feminine figure stood at the altar dressed in a robe of light grey. As Azazel approached, she turned around. Her golden hair fell long and orderly on both sides of her saintlike face. A face surpassing every renaissance artists' perfection, yet devoid of any semblance of emotion. She slowly rose her hands in a greeting gesture, which revealed the inside of her silken cloak to Azazel’s avid eyes. Faces plastered the inside of her delicate garb. Every face in their living imperfection that Azazel ever saw. Among this tapestry he quickly found his recent companions, portrayed as an excessive caricature of their inner selves. "Come to me." uttered the woman without the slightest movement of her tightly sealed lips. As Azazel came in reach, she gently grabbed his head and slowly pulled him closer to her porcelain face. Unable to escape the bottomless abyss of her unwavering gaze, Azazel let her draw him ever closer until he doused into her impeccable skin like into the surface of a pond on cold and tranquil autumn night.