Children of Terra

-Rebirth-

~An unknown time~ ~in The Great Ocean~ ~At an unknown place within~ ~And an unknown sense of self~ So many cultures around the world claim a passage-pilgrimage before reaching a fabled afterlife.  Even through the ages this was constant.  Currently, now seemed neither pilgrimage nor underworld, unless the afterlife consisted of nothing but coral reefs in a clearly underwater setting.  That was his first experience, and floating along suspended currents without air wasn't helping.  At least the peace of still ocean was a balm to concerns, because all left were questions.        So, he looked inward for memory, or tell, or . . . dream? He swirled an invisible hand around; but the sensation, the weight, through water -- was far too surreal. He next tried to perceive his body and found nothing; when he willed to look down, he just watched the 'floor' of the place spin about his vision like a plate flipping around, or the view of the inside of a washing machine.       Enough.       Without much gravity of implications, he thought to himself flatly, "I'm dead, then." After, upon casting his memory back, no name. He could remember the greenery of youth, the mundane days, the pain of familial loss, but the patches were glaring the better he could perceive their absence.       He then decided name anew. Something heroic, like the tales of the old Mediterranean. He could choose occidental, even orient, but the central lands were always most fun. Vykan. It was a twinge occident, but could be taken as unusual Mediterranean name if he imagined hard enough. Accents and all that business.       Name set, Vykan decided on his first course of action: the fabled river crossing where errant souls go: the Stygian River, Styx. He recalled the mythos; mortals dipped thus-ly became girded in flesh armor, warriors of such untold potential that few really ever had a happy ending. Why not? It beat swimming in this vast nothingness. So, off Vykan went, directionless, but intention-ed.       It had been this course for a while, Vykan heading to what looked to be an ocean floor. His time awake, or more like aware, had recalled more and more of the past life forgotten. Nothing that could place about where he had been from, or when; but inklings of tidings. Inklings of tidings gone by. Vykan chose rather to immerse himself in the descent; gliding past crevasses, buttes, mesas, ever downward to cooler and darker depths.       He tried counting the passage, gauging it against distance like one does on a car trip with sign posts; quickly finding it pointless. Distances far seemed short when counting, and the inverse more frustrating. The twinge that he really had passed away sunk deeper; but he felt adventure-sense rising in his bosom when thinking ahead, to the land below living, Tartarus so said -- as a muse to keep focus. He swam on, and looking back from whence he began; saw it not -- being so far past the water-haze occluded his origin.       After a time long enough to frustrate, and not so much as to give up entirely, Vykan came upon water so dark he couldn't peer around nor through the mass. He was at the ocean floor now, but no matter how he tried, he couldn't orient himself to feel as though he could stand against solid ground. He contented to look at the vein between the ocean he was in, and the bubbly sphere below. It wasn't defined, settling more like silty murk in a bottle; the minute wisps of currents lapping the surface like a net. Vykan thought of his choice to come here, and figured there was little in livings lands anyway. Sure, he descended into the murk, perceiving the soft blue gradient darken behind him with every passing second. He kept going until he could see blue no longer, glancing back.       He realized his mistake; turning around was foolish. For the first time since coming to self-awareness, he felt fear. No matter which direction he opted to go in, no marker of progress was visible. It started to suffocate, being trapped in nothingness. The rush of water marking movement became like a herald that some thing was behind him. Gaining. He sped up. This was stupid, he thought. Stuck in nowhere, no when, and no how to get out! Fuck! He spun agitated, swinging his invisible arms to nothing at all behind, feeling the presence, frustrated he couldn't smart it true, as is proper. He was the great and terrible Toad, after all! The thought jarred Vykan, wondering where from was that saying?       Cast in thought, he failed to notice a weary soul crash into him, knocking the dark about like vision blanking from low-blood pressure. ~Out of the Ocean~ ~And into the Pan~ Vykan realized sight again. The confusion resolved into clarity: he was on a muddy beach inside a warm, rank cave. A soft luminescence marked jagged peaks at edges of this cave, every shadow hued in a purplish unnatural glow. The next sense was smell. This place smelled like faeces. He had been to outhouses, farms, septic tank vents. Yep. He squelched up and out of the 'mud' and realized with revulsion and bile that he was naked, skin wet from being, wherever the ocean was. He cast eyes up again, but the purple ceiling offered no clue where he dropped in from . . . Humid. He hated humidity, the weight, every breath a heave. There was a rising tenor of moans all around, like groans of a thousand dying at once. Before he could think more of this, he was shoved in the chest, hard.       The soul that had knocked into him in the first place was still here, annoyed that he opted to space out like a dense fool instead of any apology. All appearances showed a naked man in front of him, but the pallor and coldness was instinctive to see: this was another dead-yet-walking. Vykan began to bring his hands up in deference before startled by the soul beginning to speak a flow-y language at him. He couldn't understand the words; but speed and tone were annoyance, on the verge of anger. Both of them being naked didn't help. The man was -- past the gyrations of hand signs, bird flips, and shouts -- sable haired, curly, with a lithe frame that spoke little of battle or hard labor. Vykan recognized the language: Mediterranean, at least in the sense that it could be from anywhere east of occident and west of orient, south of norland and north of southland. Vykan was no man of particulars.       In the mid of the man's jubilations of anger, right when one takes a breath in, heavy glared, before launching another tirade -- Vykan smiled inward and outwardly, his sense of adventure back. The man seemed to take some small affront to Vykan's amusement and leaned in with a pointed finger, before a fist from Vykan flashed out to meet his pallid jaw. Vykan was no man to hear this rabble! He was Toad! And this guy needs reminding of that! With a squelch of disgusting flesh slapping away, Vykan marveled at the choice; heart pounding at the thrill of it all! He laughed in the way someone who hadn't in a long did; slowly with a chuckle, and then a full-throated laugh that wore on the diaphragm.       Vykan, so self-absorbed from freedom, failed to see the now royally-incensed man get up and charge him in a resounding tackle, back into the mud murk. He caught a word from the man, flung through now gritted teeth: malaka! Ah, Vykan knew that one, Malaka! He thought to himself this as he spit into the man's face, before rabbit kicking the man off. The effort made Vykan already tired, he was no fighter after all, but neither was the man, heaving dry gasps hunched over mud. Despite fatigue already sadly setting in his lungs, Vykan smiled and grunted effort into his own tackle of the man. They crashed into the squelch, like pigs fighting over sweet hay. He swung inelegant haymakers, and the man equally unskilled, held his arms up in poor angles to defend. Vykan quickly ran out of breath, and making to headbutt this poor soul, was roughly grabbed about the neck and shoulder, wrenched free in stead.       These new men had that eager look in their eyes, scrappers, opportunists. Still naked, unfortunately. Vykan fought back with a kick of the mud and a gusto shout. Various slurs were undoubtedly shed, but being of an ear foreign, Vykan could only smile through increasingly bloodied lips. The energy was past words, the body language of all involved coiled with that bravado of eagerness lacking finesse.       Many of these naked waylayers eyed others in this parlay; all at once, a charge, fists high and spirits matching. At least 4 gentlemen were in the bedlam now, not including our man, and they were scrapping like a barfight, no skill in sight: haymakers, hammer fists, knees, open handed slaps were all thrown like popcorn in a theater. Vykan for his part took too many knees to his gut, too many flying fists to his jaw. The final blow was an optimistic dropkick, landing despite out of the raw fatigue Vykan was in. His lungs burnt with spent energy, and his ribs felt like they cracked from the kicking blow.       As he lay on the ground, gasping, the bruised men all were accosted by bladed, clothed warriors.       The clothed ones were garbed blue and brown, loose fitting overalls and girded with swords curved that seemed as ornamental as functional. Clearly of the same brotherhood from the rapid exchanges going on, but of different castes. At the sight, a wide berth was given to the group from the passerby wandering dead. It seemed there was structure here, after all. A while of talking passed before one of the men broke from the interrogation and, Vykan still on the ground, grabbed him roughshod up. Words were already loosing from the lips. The language was going to be an issue it seems.       Being shaken about, and still wincing from pain, Vykan spoke, "No language. None. None!"       After hearing him speak, the clothed man grabbing him shared glances with the others. Something like: How did this one get here? The unusual circumstance was enough even some of the wander byes of better hearing stopped their journey to rubberneck.       The interrogator spoke thus: "It is unusual for an islander of the far occident to wander to Telkhine lands. You reek of ill manner to accost us in mere moments. I suggest you learn quick our ways lest we sick the hounds on you."       Vykan found it unusual, this bluntness. No question of how I got here or who I am? Intermittent coughing through his reply, "I don't know where or whence I am, sir. Might you set me on my way since you know better than I where to go? I seek Tartarus."       A side way cock of the head before an answer. "There is no leaving Telkhine once entered. And it matters little where you were from, few souls remember this."       Again, unusual. A perception of difference in status? Suspicious, Vykan asked, "Are you not of the dead, sir?"       "The Kouretes abide not the laws you are shackled in. While we can walk past the boundaries of Telkhine lands to living shores, it matters none to dead-end."       Upon delivery of these last words, the 'Kourete' loosened his grip on Vykan, letting our man fall back with a squelch into the mud. Shit. Vykan knew enough that he was at least in the ballpark of his destination, the culture seemed to match. He looked up to see naked men corralled back into dispersing wanderlings, and the Kourete guards, or warriors whatever they were, vanish amongst the crowd.       The chance was slipping by, and Vykan mustered a shout out to one of the last of the Kouretes, "Where is the River Styx!? The fame of Stygia?" A barking laugh was his reply before the blue and brown garbs were lost in all.       Vykan winced, kneading his sores. Tartarus, Telkhine. Of course it wouldn't be that easy. No journey ever was. He looked around, the cavern still purple glowed; rank, and smelly -- far too many dickheads, of both kind. At least the flow of the human tide offered a direction. They all wandered the same way, past the horizon where the faint of a different glow could be seen over the throngs of heads.       With a resigned sigh, Vykan got up and began his own trudge through the shit with the rest.