[Odyssey] of the Lost

[Malice]

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Tap-Tap, Tap-Tap, the boards of a boat’s decking gently graze against half-submerged stalagmites as it drifts down a cavernous slope, almost as if the vessel and its passengers were being tickled by teeth and swallowed like a scrap of foul-tasting meat. As the current quickens though, and the boat gathers speed, one could be forgiven for feeling like Atlas as they imagine the crushing weight of the tunnel roof descending upon them, a helpless sensation that only intensifies as the warmth from their veins flees into the wood beneath them.

Darkness takes on a whole new meaning at these depths, seeming to lap at the corners of their vision like a ravenous wolf, rather than the thin and primordial veil that parts before a candle’s flame. It is not this seething shadow that terrifies them, however, but the noise that emerge from inside it, for no living thing should shriek like that, as it builds into a deafening roar that permeates flesh and rings like thunder in their heads. A palpable dread swells in their hearts, large enough to match the bulge below their tongues, and whilst some quiver in fear, clutching indiscriminately at their neighbour; one man cuts the strands of fate and leaps from the boat into the murky waters of the river.

At first he seeks to fight the liquid’s pull, pumping his arms in determined strokes until they burn, but no man may defy the Styx for long and eventually the futility of his actions hit home. True, he may have escaped one plight, and well he knew where Charon would have taken him had he not, but without the strength to resist he would probably be dashed against the shores of Hades and spend eternity as a broken corpse, instead of dining in paradise. She came to him then, in that brief moment of despair, a flash of his sacrifice and a painful reminder that he had nothing left to lose, for she had been everything to him and more. A bitter form of determination grew out of this realization and so, figuring that his soul was already damned for his crimes against nature, he dug himself a little deeper into the proverbial grave and summoned the magic that had got him here in the first place.

Hugging a rock so forcefully that it bit into his skin, the man began chanting in the blasphemous tongue of the dead, intoning the syllables that were tattooed into his arms without fear for the consequences. After his initial brush with the volatile act of Necromancy, he had sworn never to practice it again, a hesitance that lead to his death, but he would not suffer his fate when he had the power to alter its course and so sparks again danced across his fingertips as the energy possessed his body.

Bubbling furiously, the waters of the Styx held potent properties that the man couldn’t have hoped to understand though, acting as a formidable conduit and amplifying the effect of the spell as it rattled through his frame, resulting in a completely different outcome entirely, much like the day when she had fallen long ago. He had sought to create a shield out of stone from the riverbed, in an effort to protect him from the jagged shore, but when his bones began to crack and his chest expanded, he knew that something had gone wrong. Silently berating himself for meddling with things that he didn’t properly understand, he could do little but cling to the rock in agony as waves of pain surged through his limbs and watch in horror as they transformed into ghastly claws.

By the time his flesh solidified into a hardened carapace, sprouting bone pillars in the process, he had already lost consciousness and been dragged away by the inexorable river’s pull, whisking him toward a future more promising than he had ever dreamed. That is where he truly died, adrift upon the Styx, with the image of his lost love forever burned into his mind.

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Awakening face down in water, the man could only assume that his eyes opened to the same river that they had closed to, as he crawled hand over hand to haul himself over the bank and onto the shores of Hades, but the reality was far more dangerous than he could have known. Whilst he had been ‘asleep’ he had tumbled out of the Styx and into the River Lethe, a place where memory and reason gave way to madness and, once he finally gained his feet, he discovered that its virulent haze was upon him still.

Struggling to remember everything that had happened to him before he awoke on the shore, the man wandered across the land for many days until he came to the very gates themselves, where the massive guardian stood with saliva trickling from his jaws. Cerberus, a ferocious three-headed dog bigger than any elephant, unleashed a menacing growl as the man approached, step by tentative step, but when the beast caught wind of his sent, however, his ears went flat and six sets of eyes studied the man with curiosity, rather than hunger. Lost amidst his own confusion, the man had never even seen his own reflection and didn’t understand why the imposing monster had undergone such a drastic change, until that is, he glanced at a pile of the creatures drool and witnessed his corpse-coloured face.

Subconsciously furling and unfurling a set of hook-headed tentacles, the man must have resembled something from Echidna’s loins, rather than the spirits Cerberus was accustomed to and was therefore strange enough to dissuade the sentinel from attacking someone who could have well been its brother on a mission from the Gods. Shaken from his thoughts by an impertinent servant, who had come to clean up the mess that the guard-dog made of this latest intruder, his relieved voice produced a problem that the man had not considered yet, at least as far as he knew.

“ So who the hell are ye then?” the servant inquired, warily peering at Cerberus incase this was some kind of trick, though of course the man had no way of remembering his name, let alone what he was doing there to begin with and gave no answer. Highly-strung from a lifetime of polishing blood off Hades’s precious gates, the servant resorted to jeering at the man, calling out in grating tones “ What’s the matter berk? Lost yer marbles have you? “. When this further query didn’t elicit a response though, the servant swore and snatched up his shovel, swinging it towards the enigmatic man in the hopes of garnering a reaction from the stone-cold stranger. The reaction he received, however, left him so shocked that he didn’t even notice the serpent-like maw that erupted from the stranger’s stomach in a blinding flash of gleaming coils, for the man’s mouth had involuntarily opened and unveiled a cacophony of sound that made the ground tremble as if it were an earthquake.

“ I…….AM………STYX” “ the man screamed, channelling a rage from deep within his psyche as his wyrm-mouth closed about the servants head and crushed his skull in a spectacular explosion of pulp and viscera. Draining the blood from the servants body, much like a mosquito drank its fill, the man, who now apparently had associated himself with the only thing he could remember, retracted the ‘feeder worm’ until it vanished inside the folds of his metallic looking carapace and then shattered the chains that bound the gates with a whip-like crack from one of his tendrils before marching into the very fires of hell with open arms.

Set in a world of ancient Greek mythology, this story is the tale of a man who pays the ultimate price for power and sacrifices -everything- he holds dear, in order to achieve it in life. A pervading theme among Greek heroes though, is that their adventures continue even beyond the grave and it is here where we pick up the journey as the 'hero' traverses the depths of the Underworld in his quest for his past and, ultimately, perhaps even redemption as well.

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[Lammashta]

[align=center] There go the loves that wither,
The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
Red strays of ruined springs.
........
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.[/align]

[align=justify:a049abbd67]Darkness and ebony wreaths awash in the stoic atmosphere that ebbed around her like rippling waters… drowned beneath the pondlife of yet another nightmare. Had it been an eternity, centuries, years, days or hours? Down here where the plagued, restless dead wander the lonely Fields of Asphodel, far barren from the graceful hand of Hades that led them here, only to flitter, wander…aimlessly. This had been her eternal hell, banished here by the hands of lover, now all that sung twixt those once lustful lips were ballads of murder, treachery, betrayal. It could have been a possibility, had Lammashta not stolen archaic conjurations, bequeathed her own essence with vile acts… her soul would have remained pure, untainted of such foul witchery. For down here amongst the dead where all twisted things warp into more wicked, sinister abominations that not even the worst nightmare of a slumbering child could manifest… purgatory where the dead were cursed until their time of judgment.

Dark sanguine lips, painted with the poison of roses, opiate in lulled hues- the water of Lethe had long taken what reminiscence had been left. Or did Lammashta simply pretend for it was said that if one painted there lips with the scent of those blossoms, not even the waters of Lethe could steal away what little of their soul remained…even if it was only an effigy of quintessence; a pretence for fools. No ordinary spirit could be compared when in comparison to the Keres; those murdered, perished of plague or other misdeeds of mankind- wandering to claim their revenge on the hopeless, the listless, mindless wraiths who wailed, howled and gnashed their teeth in every frozen caress of wind. Even the dead can perish at the dagger, claw or scythe of another phantom beguiled of ill-omens, dark magicks and other necrophiled talents of charnel diabolical talents. Even here battles were fought and lost, it only proved death was no release only an awakening.

Empyreal wreathes of ethereal silk flowed in every bare-footed step across the black fields, specters flittering and twittering like bats as their leathery wings fluttered sonorously together, in unison as if seeking liberation… only to discover there was none, not for them… not for any. There was no thought direction in which Lammashta traveled, long dark hair blowing freely in the gnarled strokes of wind talon, raking back flags of sable satin from bodice to shoulders- flowing down her back to tangle, tussle and billow. Dwelling in numbing confusion, oblivious- disorientated having walked the same path time and time again, in search for something or someone; something of old spheres and sentiments. Refusing entrance to Elysium where perhaps Lammashta could once again feel the happiness of heart, however she had refused the hand of Cronos, choosing to exist in her own bitter torments. Suffering her own spirit, losses… tortures, not even the Palace of Hades held interest- for why should she serve another when the price was paid in death. There was her lot in this hazy illusion.

There were times Lammashta even wondered if she was dead, gone to the world above, never permitted to walk beneath the moonlight across dew-damp fields abundant in perfumed lilies. Floating, lucent, liquid… as if haunted in dance, gait tottered as if blissfully sedated with honey and wine; towards the gigantic white rock Leucas towards Oceanus and ultimately the River Styx.  Appearances from the swarming shadows, frightening, horrific… caused no falter in her pace, it had become a custom of Lammashta to seek, observe the new flux of those being lead through the gates and across the Rivers- witness which paths they take, which choices they make. She even had the hopes of one day seeing a familiar face, or shadow before they vanished into the Land of Dreams. Mouth pursed, inaudible tones and notes emitting in sirenous coercion, beautiful, hypnotic even spell-binding… from variations and intonations of sweet harmonious melody… echoing across the landscapes in her wake, even to the still waters of the Rivers.

Translucent attire of death shroud wrapped about naked curves, allowing that alabaster fleshy tone to shine through the ebony gossamer, flapping, trailing, and dragging along the terrain beneath her making it difficult to see if she was indeed walking or floating gracefully above the pebbled shoreline. Shoulders bare, hands held out from her sides only to playfully sweep, as if gathering unseen fruits for some October harvest, pomegranates of Proserpine… sleep my love sleep, for the dead wish to kiss your eyes static words ringing through the eerie hummed vibrations coursing up through long deceased esophagus where no longer air filled, only will of memory allowed it to remain, a gift of her talents not to be squandered. It was here, lost in the confusion of her own mind when Lammashta thought she heard voices… through the fogs… through the veils. It may have been nothing worthy of notice, but it was enough to draw her to the bank, looking out across the churning waters where spirits hands reached up towards her, dispassionately yet wishing for her…to enter.[/align:a049abbd67]

[align=center]Alas, there was no return; regardless how much the heart wanted it. [/align]

[Malice]

Man is a filthy creature, with desires too numerous to name, and it is here, in Tartarus, where these whims become weapons and haunt the restless shades that have passed beyond the veil of life. Separated by a haze of cruelty, this is the land where the punishment fits the crime and boasts not only some of the greatest sinners, but also potent threats to Olympus’s throne as well. Here then, amidst the suffering and the slain walks our hero, whose fate has yet to be sealed.

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Dissipating with every step, the anger that had pervaded his thoughts gave way to intrigue as Styx crossed the threshold, passing from the sweltering heat of Pyriphlegethon’s ring into an environment colder than any winter. Trudging through deep drifts of snow, his green-flecked eyes seemed to gleam with a child-like excitement as he surveyed the pasture that stretched out before him, actually obtaining some perverse pleasure from the way its flowers had been strangled by the merciless touch of frost. As he ventured deeper into the strange field, he noticed a single apple tree dominating the skyline, almost as if it had been intended to be the crowning glory of the quaint grazing land and there, beneath its burdened branches, lay a skeletal waif of a man.

Clawing at his chest with thin and emaciated fingers, as if he sought to tear out his heart and eat it, the starved man gazed forlornly up at the nearest apple and desperately tried to grasp it, before the branch bent teasingly out of his reach and he collapsed with a groan of resignation. Witnessing this pitiful scene, Styx felt a small pang of sympathy for the poor wretch, suggesting that his humanity hadn’t completely forsaken him, but as he approached the tree and resolved himself to help him, an overwhelming sense of disgust suddenly squashed his intent. “Too weak to even stand” a voice intoned inside his head, “ why waste time on someone who can only grovel and gripe?”.

Styx struggled with this line of reasoning for a moment, wondering how someone could be so heartless, struggled that is, until he realized that the eloquent tone was painfully familiar. A sudden flash of images revealed himself, or at least what he believed to be himself, berating a maid for spilling some ale and then lashing her repeatedly for her incompetence as she cried her little eyes out. The thing that struck him most though, wasn’t that he was reprimanding his subordinate, but rather the broad smile that crept across his face as she wept, a smile that transferred to the present as the spectacle faded and was replaced by the skinny man’s body being assailed by Styx’s hooked-tendrils.

Unfortunately for Styx though, not even Ulysses could meddle with the punishments of the Gods without consequence and he suddenly found himself being dragged away from the starved man by an unseen and inexorable force. Flitting about, as if caught in a tornado, the thick mane of black hair that framed his ash-hued visage flailed like a live-thing as he hurtled through the air, flying for what felt like hours until he crashed through the ceiling of a subterranean cavern and landed in a heap upon a pile of bones. Shaken by the fall, yet miraculously uninjured, he staggered to his feet and examined his new surroundings with apprehension, for if something that powerful was angry with him then surely it would exact some terrible retribution, now that he had survived. To his surprise, however, he was not alone in the chamber at all, for as he peered through the dimly lit space he saw a veritable throng of people dotted around what looked like a gigantic pillar of stone. Towering above him like some ageless Titan, the smooth obelisk seemed to hold everyone spellbound in its black marble depths, pulsating with an eerie yet alluring energy that gradually drew the observer to its polished surface and lost them in its sheen. This device was known as the Siren’s Stalagmite, an infamous test of a heroes willpower, for it offered them visions of their hearts desire and then held them captivated until they withered away into lifeless husks. Styx, of course, knew nothing of the danger he was in, because whilst it might have featured in tales during his mortal days, all trace of its name had been wiped clean from his memory, much like his past deeds and so he lifted his gaze and stared in speechless awe as it probed his desires.

[align=center] Red as the berry in bloom, those Aphrodite lips are sweet as nectar.

Black as the coals of Hades, those sultry eyes melt the coldest of hearts. [/align]

See how she runs to her lovers arms, her cheeks flush with joy- FLASH, the woman is jolted by a bolt of lightning and tumbles to the floor. FLASH, dark shapes loom above her, ritual daggers poised to strike. FLASH, her alabaster flesh is marred with blood as it pools beneath her broken form. Shaking as these sights unfolded, Styx was on his knees by the time they finished and, just as a very real tremble rattled through his heart, a cry thundered across Tartarus and careened onward to the banks of the river beyond “ NOOOOOOOOOOOOO LAMMASHTAAAAAAAAA”.

[Lammashta]

Was it that the banks were lined with Daffodils, or were the mirages of white simple the hapless wavering in the deathly zephyr in hopes that a hand from loved ones above would grace them once more; so lovingly? Of course beauty here was indeed nothing more than a mirrored image from some lost, forgotten memory before supping the waters of Lethe in order to forget and perhaps, if the soul was lucky enough to carry forth once more, or remain, wandering just as she did because refusal to drink of those waters led you to an afterlife of suffering and torment... then again such bittersweet emotions they were, with better substance than that of the misconception of love. Was deception and betrayal a better word for it? Why would such as she wish for a lesson to be forgotten when it was the lesson so well learned? Far be it from the others to wish their nightmares away and exist in a bubble ignorant to their fall… was the memory that hurtful that they chose a funeral shroud to conceal it? Death is as Death does, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that everything dies… not completely; hatred never vanquishes itself to dirt or ash.

In the blackness of soul/spirit there was nothing to consider beautiful, sure the lips were blood-smothered red from that of those less fortunate to cross the paths to Elysium. Indeed, those length of tresses, silky coal black, iridescent of night that writhed with that of serpent tongues; to strike and thus inflict poisons no potion could ever cure- those even fatal to the dead… there was nothing no longer of flesh, yet still the ultimate prize of soul remained. Again, truth, even in death… nothing is ever truly dead; of course unless you cross the Keres. The daughters of Nyx, death-spirits who yearned to tear at the flesh of men, and were nothing but banes of…{madness} {pestilence} {hunger} {nightmare}… such Daimons had been chosen because of the violence of their deaths, the cruelty involved that fueled the growing hatred into something of frenzy; a spirit that usually could not be reasoned or bargained with simply because of the extent of ferocity. Some even thought them to be the spirits Pandora herself had unleashed upon the world… a plague to mankind.

”Now enough with the sentiments… “ a harsh voice cooed from within, the hunger taking affect of the desire to be couth to a more haggard and treacherous approach; food was food, and a lady should never really play with it- then again, Lammashta no longer claimed to be noble these cold, dreary days while wondering the grayish landscapes of some madman’s nightmare. Barren… empty… not even a single soul dared lurk, other than the flowers which lined the banks, projecting that sweet, sickly, floral scent… seemed Persephone was playing with the hearts of men again, to lure then to the lace and limb of her lair only to seduce and throw them to the lions; which in this case were the Keres. Lammashta was growing weary of her leftovers- the Goddesses of Hades were no longer being as selective as they had been in the past, then again Lammashta supposed that once you have an itch, you didn’t overly care of scratched it, or with what they scratched it with.

Insane curses began with a dull, disharmonious hum, the sound purring forth from the back of her throat, a callous, cruel sound, in tempo and pitch it grew, higher in cadence to near glass shattering crescendo but with eerie undertones of deep chthonian chimerstry; powerful noted to those with any ritualistic experience… to lure the subterranean butterflies to the ebony web of her claws.  A sadistic grimace shifted over the paleness of translucent skin where black veins pulsed with the darkness imbued from the dark blood of the dying, how sweet it was, she remembered the taste of her last kill as tongue licked over burnt red landscapes to remove any remnants of that lavish little appetizer- only an entrée to the brewing hanker of more death… the bane and blessing to her unearthly oblivion. Opalesque eyes rolling to the back of ghoulish lids in exuberance, tongue lashing over upper and lower arches of aperture before being aroused back to awareness from a bellow within the near distance… a name not heard, until now. Lammashta had no idea of how long, time was not important here… but still it was definite… undeniably hers. Who could call her here… where only the tongues of the dead speak before all else goes silent?

It was this voice from her past that she traveled to… swift and thirsty for what her soul had longed to claim… HIS blood.