Visions of Ythalga

Of Ythalga, Neonatans are close-lipped and evasive, seeking not to understand, but instead to deny with vehemence the proposition that these visions are anything more than the delusions of those on death's door. 
Perhaps they are the last feeble attempt of the mind to peer into the veil beyond life, pouring into that premonition all the fears, uncertainties, and unspeakable terrors that plague the vulnerable mind when high on the pheramones of death. 
Or perhaps not. 
What has been documented and seems to pervade accounts of the Dark Dimension are the conditions under which Ythalga is invoked. It is curious that this realm is uttered in either secret whispers or in mad chants, but never in calm discourse. In either case the visions pervade the mind in the presence of Vesper when those dark tendrils have taken hold on mind and spirit and the Madness curls its vicious talons in its cold and vice-like grip. 
From second-hand accounts of these visions, I have gleaned that Ythalga is a land completely alien to our own in form and nature. The lunacies of mad men depict an expanse of hellish black mire, undulating and pulsing formlessly and vast beyond imagining. It seems, while contrary to Neonatan understanding, that this world is unchained from civilized and decent laws seemingly gleeful in its perverse and putrid miasma. The haunted, wet eyes of the mad reflect forbidden sights those of which should not be beheld by the mortal eyes of fleeting species such as ours and as such infect the spirit itself with the dark urge to tear down the gentle world that now seems a naive lie we would use to comfort a child. 
In two accounts, I have guessed at darker machinations with a malevolence only supreme intelligence could muster and those witnesses for whom I pity. 
Firstly I repeat the words of the late Osandra En'Galan, a weaver from Zer Zerude who was beset by a fiend upon the open plains of the Red Wastes. The words were recorded by an Orak who had been tracking the beast, but failed in the rescue of the piteous weaver and as some small mercy, that is inconvenient to my own aspirations, ended her ramblings before she could complete her prophetic vision of what I presume to be Ythalga's inhabitants. Take a moment to harken to yourself the stalwart shield of whatever being you call god, and read on only if you have hardened your heart.

"Oh gods their eyes! Eternally they lie in wait at the door, so many eyes! Bulbous and fetid, their bodies slick with a rank slime. I can smell them like the sweet and rotten smell of putrid fruit, of decay. Their... protrusions and prehensile limbs tangle and writhe as though one becomes the next or do not end at all in an endless sea. Oh gods, its terrible, you cannot fathom.

It is worth noting that there was reported at this time a hesitation. It seems the woman began to convulse with rapid exhalations as though in a deep panic.

No, no! I've faltered and the sound of my haggard footfalls have attracted their loathesome gaze. They're looking at me with those horrid eyes... They see me, they've found me and there is no where to run. I can feel them inside my mind, speaking to me. They're coming this way, they are laughing, relishing in this, please no, noooo!

The account ends here as it is reported screaming ensued followed by laughter of a blasphemously pleasured degree. The Orak did not suffer to hear any further and thrust her blade into the woman's heart. The Orak reports even so that death did not claim the poor creature yet, and gutteral, wet sounds emanated from that mad throat in a language unintelligble and perverse for minutes thereafter.