Children of Terra

~An unknown time~ ~Drifting among the currents~ ~At an unknown place~ ~Vykan, dreamer~ How does one go about describing the lull lapping of being in a steady current? Of the feeling of flow from one direction, diffusing over the flesh, dragging limbs along the current; a pause then back again? Vykan was so tired. He let himself sleep among the currents, listening to nothingness of the ocean around.       Was this the vaunted Khaos the Telkhine spoke of? Was he turning now into daimon? He didn't feel as though the tide threatened to swallow him, neither did he care to fight it.       He felt himself wash upon a shore, only caring to notice as the sounds of festivities rang out. The smells of feasting, fucking, and fighting mingling in a most hedonistic way. He had been in Telkhine long enough to know the language, the tone.       He was back.       Vykan sat upward, looking about himself. This was not the rank shit-mud of Therodos, the water here was pure, clean, inviting. Greenery was all around the banks, lilies on the water. He had awoken elsewhere in Telkhine. A grimace set about his face as he stood and walked to the buildings not far ahead, sounds of merriment around the corners, and the dances of shadows by firelight showed quite activities as well.       He decided to clamber up the backside of the buildings and dress himself with stolen toga he chanced upon. He slipped a dagger into the folds for good measure, secured by a leather harness that hung like a water skin at his left rib. From his vantage, he peered over the balcony, seeing a bonfire jubilee, and a great pillowed pile of people having a time. Some danced, some feasted, most indulged.       Too shocked by the stark scene below, he failed to notice a hand run across his shoulder. He tensed, made to whirl, but was stopped by a feminine embrace from behind. From the feel of it, naked. Those peaks pressed into his back, made him feel giant.       She spoke, "Hmm, you look scant from behind. But I can feel otherwise, firm muscles of a hard worker . . . And a hard worker you must be to sneak into a woman's place during a time like this?"       Vykan chose to flex his back before responding, cautious enough to pretend, but pissed enough to not care in the end. "I forgot myself in such heavy libations, sweet one, that I even forgot the . . . occasion?"       A giggle and squeeze before she coaxed him around. (No immediate reaction, good.) "My oh my, you must be quite deep in the vineyard! The rebellion? The victory of Triton? The malakas leader? Quartered and each part sent to a river-grave?"       Vykan leaned in, pressing her into an arch. "I perhaps did drink too much; errant to get my vigor back. What were the names of those rivers for each part? Such beautiful punishment made me so . . . excited."       She groaned contentedly, Vykan noting the tensing and relaxing of her body as she recalled for herself. "It was . . . Cocytus that got his loins and heart. Lamenting disrespect. So he might never gain the courage nor wile to rise again.       "Acheron for his arms. Sorrowful misery that he might never wield a blade evermore.       "Phlegethon for the legs. Scalding punishment that he might never walk against Telkhine.       "Lethe, home, for the torso and head. The dirge of forgetfulness that we might move to festivities . . . "       Vkyan took this all in silent consternation, holding her bare to him as he ventured the next question. "I forget what we did to reward the rooters of the conspiracy? Who was it that got Styx? Did I drink too much?"       The woman laughed mirthfully, running a hand on the inside of his toga, teasing it slowly off. "No one gets the pride of Arcosc-" She stopped, tensing abruptly, with a gasp, at something she saw fixedly on his chest. It appeared the libations slowed her judgement just long enough to make her think she saw in err.       Vykan, however, did not hesitate. He drew and plunged the knife in her bosom, other hand clamping her mouth as he bore his weight on her. Muffled scrambling she tried, but to a korybant; futile. Her eyes showed a fright and plea before the life-spark faded, with every fainting heartbeat.       He dumped her body over the back, into the grounds facing what he assumed river Lethe -- from her description of home, anyway. Looking down, he knew the blood would be hard to cover on a toga this white. He went downstairs, half cautious for any other life, looking for . . . Aha! A jug of wine! He poured damn near the whole bottle on his front, wringing it, and pouring more, until the blood and wine stains mingled into just discoloration.       He didn't goad her to finish. He didn't need to. No other city-state of import held those syllables in that way.       Vykan needed to get to Arcoscephale.