Children of Terra

~Week-and-half of festivities~ ~Across Telkhine~ ~Traveling along the road~ ~Vykan, supplicant~ He had stuck around in the city-state of Pangaea, host of River Lethe, for a while enough to get his bearings. Vykan oft used the excuse of celebration for his forgetfulness, which was taken not too out of stride by the locals there. Lethe was the river to wash memories away, after all. He did get more information from a baccanalian man than would be proper.       Vykan finally had names and geography from the celebrant -- Arcoscephale hosted the River Styx, Pangaea hosted the River Lethe. Both of these he gathered elsewhere.       The city-states Berytos, host of Cocytus; Mekone, host of Phlegethon; and . . . Therodos, host of Acheron were new perspectives to him.       In geography, the 5 city states were arranged in a rough W zigzag -- the arrow-points of the W pointing west:       The skein separating Khaos and Telkhine comprised the north, east, and south border of this sideways peninsula -- west being the lands of Triton and beyond;       The 3 bases facing east were, north-to-south, Therodos, Mekone, Berytos;       The 2 inland points, north-to-south, were Arcoscephale and Pangaea.       The baccanalian became steadily more suspect of these lines of questioning from Vykan. Some ignorance could be overlooked, given the circumstances, but the disbelief that any longtime denizen of Telkhine would be ignorant of so much . . .       So, Vykan having lured him already to a domicile under the pretext of winery and eatery, killed the man; a heart-jab and pull to the floor before blood spurt out. He didn't bother with staging or cleanup, leaving the man in his own blood. He took new garbs for himself -- heaver to conceal better -- and strap-sandals for the journey. Gifts from a man who would have seen him dead, the irony not lost on Vykan.       Goal set, that was a week and days ago now. Telkhine declared a month of celebration: victory over Triton, and quelling a nascent slave rebellion; sufficient excuse to raise nationwide morale and zeal. A good reason for travel.       Vykan plied himself as a supplicant on the road to Arcoscephale; the story needing modification from person to person, bodies left in ditches, to perfect the cover of.       He made it to Arcoscephale just shy of two-weeks from the betrayal. ~Great Golden Arcoscephale~ ~Home of Telkhine~ ~Land of the Enlightened~ ~Vykan, supplicant-at-the-gates~ The capitol Arcoscephale was grander than anything of Therodos or Pangaea had in implied power. Every building in the capitol was ornamented, carved, illustrated, or painted in a way that showed a culture at its height. The streets were immaculate, the buildings grand, the landscaping orderly, and the people! Oh, how they held themselves! This was a land self-indulgent! A land straight from the ideations of history books.       A land that thoroughly rejected Vykan. He didn't want to chance detection from any of the gates alone, so he withheld entering, until a group of vagabond supplicants drunk and pliable enough could draw attention. There was some exchange of glances at the guards; but Vykan had prior sploshed a tactful amount of wine on his travel-garb, hid his breath with alcohol, and acted the fool enough to lower their guard.       He was in.       Acting the supplicant wasn't that hard, in honesty. He truly was in awe of the place, statues and memorial-stele of heroes dotted all throughout the place; it was a bittersweet thing. He did find it all very beautiful. But, there was a goal here.       Vykan wound his way to the center districts over the course of days, not wanting to shed his persona of supplication; and there was plenty opportunity to play bumpkin fool to these people. He listened to many-a-story, drank, feasted. He refrained from fleshly indulgence, the chest tattoo marking him would ruin all if discovered.       Eventually, he found his goal: the shrine complex of the River Styx. None were permitted entry. The boon too great for Telkhine. Styx was the greatest war-factory in existence of Telkhine. Chosen soldiers became demi-gods of battle, invulnerable save a single weakness. The waters, when mixed with proper alchemy became the most potent of poisons -- enough to infirm nearly any being known to Telkhine. The rumors it could spawn proved a valuable resource of politics and persuasion as well.       Vykan had to think about this. Once a week -- for the past two -- an effigy of . . . himself, was built and ritually defaced in order over that week's course. The now daily gatherings drew most of the city to the temple quarter, and he would have to observe things to find a chink in the guard rotations from these opportunities.       The guards themselves were myrmidon proper. Gild head to toe in thick, plated bronze-plated-gold. Just resplendent for a shrine of Arcoscephale. There were gaps, though. They used mystique for slack, and Vykan all too ready to exploit this.       He waited until the beginning of the next ritual that day, when crowds gathered to begin his effigy defacing. Vykan slipped into a blind spot of the outer temple complex, looking to climb up and within a lip of the column stones. Speed was the essence: he flashed up a column face, scrambling to inside under roof cover. The korybant training had uses outside of combat. I must be diligent in its upkeep.       He moved along the ceiling, following guard rotations so to always be behind someone, surveying the temple complex. It appeared to be a built-and-harnessed spring head, containing what Vykan found hard to believe was water. The surface looked thick, murky. Like tar or crude oil. 'River' would be an optimistic word. A ritual platform extended from a pavilion surrounded by temple buildings in a ring -- otherwise the shores of Stygia were bare so to offer view to the masses. Vykan figured the myrmidons made living wall when the population allowed entry.       Regardless, he would have to wait for a coinciding guard rotation and a distraction. Around and around he went.       After a guard shift in view of the festivities, Vykan took his chance: He kicked out from the ledge in a hang, coiling his muscles for reach. Landing, he drove his ankles into the ground; it was probably around 60 meters from the temple line to the shore bank. Myrmidon clearly saw him, their plate too inhibiting of burst movement to stop him. Shouts rang out, alerting the complex.       He jumped in the air as arrows were loosed by an arriving temple-garrison, one planting clean in his forearm, another in his calf. Wincing, Vykan landed in Styx feet-first; the muck halting inertia so fast he flipped forward, throwing his hands out reflexively.       Immediately, his nerves pricked and sent aflame all throughout his body as he sank into the viscous black of Stygia. ~Audience within-without the depths~ ~In the suffocation of Stygia~ ~Vykan, mortal-who-dares~ He drifted in the blind darkness, his body feeling as though it was under constant electrocution. No sensation could be felt over constant, oppressive nerve-fire. No sight, feeling, nor sound. It went on so long his lungs burnt. But I never needed air before!       The other times he floated in death, no compulsion of the flesh took him. He did breath in water out of curiosity, but never once feeling like he was drowning.       Now, the ancient panic took him. His muscles burst in survival instinct to go up -- he couldn't tell what was happening through the pain. The pain! The reflex couldn't be stopped: he opened his mouth in a gasp, immediately choking the rouge syrup. The electrocution-perception doubled, his lungs filling sickly in that murk, squeezing all the air bubbles left in his lungs.       At once, through the pain, a voice heard in his mind. It shattered upon his psyche, paralyzing him. It spoke thus: Another errant! By what measure do you deign the spoils of Styx?       Vykan couldn't speak; he could barely focus his thoughts into coherence. I . . . seek . . . adventure.       You will never harness the 'hatred' of the waters with an oath so feeble! It is not hard to immerse in my audience; many before you have done so and many after will try . . . An oath must be given fairly for its self-impact, so I demand two things of you: By what oath do you swear upon my ichors? And by what weakness do you allow your end?       Vykan had no sight of things in the darkness, his body aflame. Yet he could see the damned-before, clawing his flesh as they riven themselves in rage. The haunts bore visages of fury, eating him, demanding more, never enough. He bore thoughts weakly: I swear . . . 3 things . . . I swear for purpose . . . I swear for wisdom to bear my purpose . . . And I swear for strength to see my purpose done . . .       The pain subsided enough for relief, the next psyche invasion purring: And what is thy purpose?       I shall be the curse to the wicked; I shall be the wicked to the torturer; I shall be the hatred of the callous; I shall be your doom upon evil. I shall do unto those that do unto fair Khaos. I shall be the ouroboros that metes its own end.       The pain subsided, and he felt numb, but alive. The voice spoke again, a tinge lighter: And you seek not glory? You seek not favor?       I seek not goodness, for I know well the stains of those that haunt evil. I know that one day, I might be just the same. Neither do I claim such righteousness. I swear I will visit them as they us. I will be the intractable terror.       And by what binding do you swear your oath? Where will be your undoing lest you fall into utter depravity? What is your gift upon me that would levy mine upon you?       Vykan thought, not too long, as once it hit him, nothing else felt natural . . . My heart. My weakness that will forever remain. I swear to you these immortal binds upon my mortal heart evermore.       After the last of his thoughts, he felt a wrap upon his heart, a tightening of oath that bound him to the thick, tarry waters of Stygia. I hold your weakness in my service, Vykan. You will honor our oath lest the binds-that-chain crush you. Fare thee well, my 'doom . . . '       Vykan felt his eaten flesh reform anew, felt the rush flow up-to-down, felt the air of Arcoscephale fill his lungs once again -- as he rose from the waters of hatred itself.       Felt his purpose burn in his heart.