The world as he knew it was no more. Death had taken him, in a manner temporary but vastly worrying. Mal had stepped out of the bounds of the universe and strayed beyond the threads of time. He looked at his hand, so vague and yet distinct all at once. He saw with eyes that were not eyes, heard with ears that were not ears. Had he come here as merely a spirit, perhaps he could survive for a time if he was not plucked by one of the dreadful denizens, but as he came here physically, his body began to waste. It was a race against time, like a drowning man that had just sucked in his first lungful of water. And yet, Mal felt a serene calm that beckoned him. Had he been a normal man without arcane knowledge, he would have simply let it take him. 

Luckily he was too clever for that.
 
Briefly he looked up at the world cavern, letting himself take a precious three seconds to admire the horror of the death realm. Rock of some unknown substance filled the horizon as far as any eye could see or grasp, higher than the sky and beyond scope. Great roots the size of small countries snaked out of the broken cavern top, monumental in range and wholly significant beyond Mal's small existence. Had Mal been able to breathe, his breath would have caught. Oddly, he was aware of some cosmic light that kissed the stone and roots, originating to his right. Somehow he thought of it as north, but he knew directions like that were impossible in Hel. 

Turning, he saw the maw of the tunnel feeding into some other chamber. The light ebbed and flowed off the wall as if it were alive. Mal had theories to its origin, but he decided he could study such things later. Gripping his talisman, he closed what eyes he felt he had and concentrated, his spirit stirring within his discarnate breast and gathering itself for a final gambit. The light in the chamber pulsed slowly, and he felt something tremble as if it had awoken. Mal called to Odin, his voice noiseless. He knew the God could hear him, regardless. Grimnir had other plans for him, Malcador knew. He had spoken as much. Seconds passed, and as his soul bucked in its death spasms and the light began to grow brighter, Malcador finally felt the tug of his pendant pulling him. 

He was hurtled out of Hel and back into the mortal plane faster than light or information, and yet it felt like an eternity. 

Malcador gasped, opening his aching eyes. Vaguely he was aware of pavement under his body, but at the moment he was like a newborn babe. He had forgotten how to breathe, and choked for a few key moments until his entire being returned to his vessel and he felt his nerves and body returning to normal, the flesh arising from its labyrinthine prison of the underworld. It was an experience he couldn't describe to anyone, and he hadn't exactly planned for it to happen. He gave a word that succinctly defined his current thoughts of returning to real-space. 

"Fuck." 

Clutching his chest, he blinked and struggled to push himself from a prone position. Distantly, he heard his name being called by a familiar voice. Jaelle, yes. He remembered Jaelle, but what led him here? 

Oh, the spell, and the men irritatingly immune to his magics. That wasn't possible, but somehow they [i]had[/i] been. Malcador lifted himself up unsteadily and called out to Jaelle. "I'm here! Over here!" He yelled with gusto, clearing his throat. Damn, he was thirsty, and he felt he could eat a horse. Mental note, if you're going to cast Mund-spilli, make sure you had aetherial ties to the regular plane if you planned on escaping its blast. It's a suicide spell for a reason, he told himself. Briefly, he saw a man across the gas service stations at the convenience store running into the street. He thought it was the same man that had survived his attack. Well, for once in his life, he wished he had a goddamn gun or something. 

When Jaelle got there, he would send them both back to headquarters. This place was getting tiresome.