Chapter 3: Not in Kansas Anymore?

~ Part 1: Boredom is a Bridge to Introspection ~

“Just how long is this thing?” I groan out loud, glaring at the [River of Lost Souls].

I’ve been following this ravine of expired milk for hours, relentlessly climbing downstream. And I tell you: as fascinating as it might be to observe a torrent of tormented souls persistently flowing up and against the natural inclination of the ground, the fascination can only last so long.

*grrrrrrrrr*

And my growling stomach won’t let me forget the alarming state of my travel supplies either.

I’m hungry.

Hi Hungry. I’m Voice.

Correction. I’m crazy.

Hi Crazy. I’m Voice.

See what I mean?

Seriously. If I don’t find a place to restock soon, I might as well jump in the river. Maybe I can survive long enough to be carried somewhere interesting.

No.

My intuition tells me ‘No’.

By this point, I’ve more or less lost hope of finding Cali.

Or at the very least, I’ve lost hope finding the city before I run out of provisions. That is, if a single loaf of rancid bread and two leaves of pseudo-lettuce can be considered “provisions”. Now I’m kind of counting on the unlikely chance of stumbling upon an evil necromancer’s secret lair. With luck they won’t be a lich and they’ll actually need food, which I then could steal after killing them.

It’s a little far-fetched, I know, but stranger things have happened.

And if the cave owner isn’t evil, but still don’t want to share food? Well… Meh. It’s a dangerous world out here.

I usually wouldn’t care that much about dying. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?

But if I kick the idiomatic bucket right now, I’ll get banned from logging in for one real day. A whole twenty-four hours. That means ninety-six hours in game. Ninety-six! That’s a lot lost hours. I don’t have that much time to spare. I’m on school holiday right now, but classes are starting again in a few days, which will grandly reduce my available gaming time.

Oh. Sure. I could skip classes. I don’t exactly have some perfect attendance record to keep up. In fact, it’s to the point my classmates call out to me by name in surprise when I do show up.

It’s an awkward kind of fame.

And attendance isn’t compulsory anyway… That’s college for you.

But still. It kinds of looks bad when you miss the first days of the trimester. I’d like to keep a low profile if possible… in real life at least. There are all sorts of bothers that inevitably pop up when you stand out too much. And contrary to the game world, I can’t just shrug off those annoyances in the not-virtual reality. I much prefer staying as insignificant as possible.

Then, when the login ban gets lifted, I’ll still have to respawn back at the closest [Altar] I’ve registered at.

In Untold Tales, you don’t reappear in the area of your death, but at a special location found in most cities. Although you have to register at said location to set it as a potential respawn point. Just being in the vicinity of a city won’t suffice.

Currently, my respawn point is in Ashen city, all the way back beyond the [Deadgrass Hills].

Now. I very much loved my stay in Ashen. The muggers were friendly enough, and the inn I stayed at housed a very polite colony of cockroaches. But my love isn’t so deep that I’d suffer the trek through Equestria of the Dead a second time.

Also, I feel like I’m onto something here in this stinky place. If I were to die and revive, I have no confidence whatsoever I’d be able to find this discount Styx again, considering the vastness of these woods. So right this instant dying is – to quote one blue hedgehog – “nooo good”.

That said, I’m really starting to get bored. Monotony is the one thing that truly gets to me. It’s why I never could stand grinding mobs and farming skills. …or is it the other way around? Whatever.

Walking usually wouldn’t be included in boring stuff. I love strolling. Be it in nature or in towns, alone silence or in noisy street full of people, just walking around relaxes me. But… this river is just soooooooooooo gloomy. It’s insufferable. I feel like screaming my lack of entertainment.

I form a loudspeaker with my palm and turn towards the sky.

“Booooooooooooooooooring!!!!”

My shout echoes through the silent woods. Hopefully this will attract a few monsters. But just to be sure…

“HEEEEEY!! WORLD! If you’ve got something preposterous to throw at me, now’s the time!” I call out to the ruling forces of the universe… who seem positively unconcerned. Dammit! Why is it that when I actually want to get into troubles, suddenly everything is just peachy?!

I try to switch target. “Come on Chaos! I know you just love to mess with me! I’m ready! Bored and willing! What are you waiting for?! Don’t chicken out on me! Troll me! Burn me! Smite me, O Mighty Smiter!!”

I stop walking, let my arms drop to my sides, lightly panting, and wait, idly scanning my surroundings.

…

……

………

I wait.

…

And wait.

…

And wait.

…

And wait.

…

Then!

Suddenly!

After about ten minutes of nothing happening…

…Nothing happens some more?

“I can see that!”

I throw my hands up and kick a stone in annoyance. The pebble flies off the ground and with a loud snapping sound buries itself inside a tree, cracks spreading across the trunk. I stare at the damaged bark for a while, then sigh and resume walking along the river.

“I’m lonely.”

I know. I know. We’ll find someone to hang with soon enough.

“I miss the sun.”

Me too.

“I want to eat some ice-cream.”

Me too.

“And candy.”

And cookies.

“Right. Cookies. And also mess with some players for fun.”

And kill them brutally… for fun too.

“Maybe we should try bounty hunting for a while?”

Hunting bad players to improve our reputation?

“Kind of… Plus, I do feel a little bad when I kill nice guys.”

Liar.

“Hey!”

Come on, don’t delude yourself. You love butchering people.

“I wouldn’t got that far… I… don’t dislike it?”

Crushing bones.

“Well, it’s kind of fun, but–”

Feeling them break in your grasp. Hearing your victim’s screams of pain.

“Now that’s–”

Looking into their eyes when they realise there’s no escaping their fate. Basking in their despair.

“I’m not–”

Stomping them into the ground. Beating them to a pulp. Show them who commands, who’s the boss. Make them grovel at your feet.

“Listen–”

Gut them. Rip them to shreds. Strangle them with their own innards.

“…”

The warmth of the flowing blood between your fingers.

“…”

Aaaaah~ …Murder. It’s an art form, really. An exhalation of the senses. Sex can barely compare. Well, it’s just my opinion.

“…”

But I guess slaughtering fuckers who somehow deserve it does add a self-gratifying dimension to the act. So I’m all for bounty-hunting.

“…You’re scaring me sometimes, you know?”

Like I always say, dearie. I. Am. Sub. Conscious. You’re the fuck-up one. I just verbalise it. In fact, I don’t even exist. I’m nothing more than a way for your mind to cope.

“…Cope with what, exactly?”

The world, dearie. Society. Being yourself. However you want to call it. I only exist so that you can pass all your dirtiest inner desires as a joke. Face it, you would go batshit crazy without me as an outlet.

“Or I’m already crazy and just talking to myself.”

Or that. But did you ever wonder why our Mom gives you all those pills?

“I don’t want to think about it.”

Of course not… Don’t worry. That’s why I’m here.

“…”

After this, I keep walking in silence for a while. Both my surroundings and my mind stay silent, and dark.

Thoughts I don’t want to think of are floating at the edge of my consciousness, along with repressed memories, long buried images I know I don’t want to recall. I don’t even pay attention to potential danger from the woods and only stare blankly at the unchanging river rushing past me, finding solace in the mute screams of agony of the crying souls.

* * *

It takes me less than an hour to rise out of my slump. I really can’t stay depressed for long. I just can’t. Like I already said, I’m a fundamentally positive person. Happy. Energetic. Inventive. Happy-Go-Lucky. Joyous. Carefree. Off my meds.

Positively positive!

But with the retreat of my melancholia comes back my unfortunate tedium.

This place really is dull.

Yes. I would stop to experiment with that soul plasma in the river, but I really need to find food first... What a dilemma.

To trump my boredom, I execute a couple ad-lib dance moves, kicking pebbles into the stream of souls. I also start humming the first song that goes through my mind, which turns out to be something from the 1970’s. Not so surprising, since I’ve got this love for retro music.

“♫ I was tired of my lady ♪♪ we'd been together too long… ♩”

You wish.

Shut up. I’m still mad at you.

For what? Pointing out the truth?

Just shut up.

“♩ Like a worn out recording ♩ of a favourite song… ♫”

Oh! Like how you listen to that one song you like soooo much until you get sick of it? Yeah, that’s annoying. I remember when “Let It Go” was a thing.

Are you going to comment on every sentence?

…maybe?

I roll my eyes at myself. Damn I’m lonely. Okay. That’s definite. As soon as I reach somewhere safe, or die, I’m finding myself a teleportation gate – or make one if I have to – and go back to the Tame Zone to recruit a party member. Preferably female.

That’s racist.

“♪♫ So while she lay there sleepin' I read the paper in bed… ♩♩ And in the personal columns, ♫ there was this letter I read… ♩”

Taken by the beat, I skip a few steps and twirl, something rather awkward in full-plate armour. I probably look ridiculous, but it’s not like there’s anybody here to see me. I might have to watch myself a little more when I finally get a companion though. I wouldn’t want to scare them off too fast.

“Well. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I still have no idea where I’m heading.”

Now that I think about it, just how vast are these woods exactly? My map of the region isn’t exactly accurate and the first glance of the forest I’d got from the meadow outside suggested the see of dark green went on and on for nearly forever.

Granted the visibility wasn’t excellent. This place could be as large as the Elven Forest for all I know. Or not.

Realistically thinking, that kind of absurd size is unlikely. Erwyn isn’t a very large country, at the scale of the continent. Since the kingdom is completely enclosed in the [Tiamat Mountain Range], it makes its exact size rather easy to estimate, contrary to many nations in the Wild whose borders have been lost throughout the centuries.

If these [Lost Woods] are as wide as I think they are though, how were they ever “lost” in the first place? Or maybe does the name refer to the people, who come here and get lost.

Makes sense.

Yeah. It would truly be the first thing that makes sense since stepping inside this cursed woody zoological Lovecraftian graveyard.

Chorus.

“♫ If you like bloody pyjamas ♫ and getting caught in the rain… If you do not fear trauma ♪ if you have half a brain… ♫♫ If you like killing corpse at midnight in dungeons of the glade… Then I'm the love that you've looked for ♩ PM me and escape… ♩♪”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Remixed chorus.

That last rhyme was kinda… meh? Also, “bloody pyjamas”? Really? Really??

Oh, give it a rest. I’m improvising. I’m not a lyricist. I’m just trying to get my mind off things for a while.

Whatever you say, bro.

I sigh. The premises of a migraine are starting to build up in my skull.

This place has been tiresome. Partially because I haven’t logged out properly in nearly twenty-four hours – bad habit – and mental fatigue has been piling up. Then partially because this I’m half-expecting to stumble upon Nyarlathotep at every corner, and it’s keeping part of my brain on high alert at all time.

Really, alogisms never scared me, but rarely have I encountered a place that showed so little regard for common sense. Usually I’m the one who’s in discrepancy with the rest of the world – and I’m fine with that – but here… Between flying undead shrimps, squirrel liches, ill-timed spawning and backwards rivers of mute wailing souls, I’m not sure what to think anymore.

I wonder if that’s how exploring my own mind would feel like…

You really don’t want to know.

Don’t I?

I juggle with the possible implications of that thought for a while, as I walk at a brisk pace on the shore of the flowing atrocity, keeping an eye for ambushes from the bushes and from everywhere else.

…

……

………

No, I probably don’t.

* * *

For another hour, nothing changes much in my “enchanting” surroundings, except for the occasional undead who shows up and is positively insistent on diving headfirst into the putrid spiritual plasma.

I swear it’s their idea, not mine.

Suuure~

Scout’s honour. I mean… In my humble opinion, this seems very unadvisable. But who am I to refuse those poor rotting corpses the right to do as they please?

Who indeed?

To each their own little guilty pleasure, right? Mine is mind-control porn… I’m a regular guest on “The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive” website – URL: [http://www.mcstories.com] – truly a reference in the genre and I want to add–

Are you really sure you want to advertise that?

Uh? Why not? It’s not like anyone is actually listening to my thoughts.

…uh.

“What?” Come on. If you got something to say, spill it.

Nothing, nothing. You know I always encourage you to be true to your inner self. I approve of any extreme sexual fantasy you might have. By all means, pursue.

What? So I’ve got weird fetishes. That doesn’t make me a sociopath rapist for the cause.

Well–

Not. Another. Word.

…

Anyway. Point is. If the zombies want to melt gruesomely to re-death, I won’t let the judgemental eye of society hinder their deepest desire. I’ll even help them graciously.

I’m sure they’re grateful.

Indeed. I choose to interpret their screams of agony as heartfelt thanks. It warms my heart to give assistance to those unfortunate children.

Ain’t I the nicest guy?

Of course you are.

Flattery.

Self-confidence.

“Fufufufufu–”

And self-delusion.

“…”

I hate you.

No, dearie. You don’t. You’re far too narcissistic for that.

Well, I am awesome.

That we are. Besides, what would you be without me?

Lonely, I suppose.

Well, that too. Now pay attention where you’re going. I think there’s something over there.

“What do you mean ‘that too– Um…?”

In the distance, barely visible above the faintly glowing flow of souls, I spot a large arching structure spanning over the river and standing on several pillars. I squint, and raise a hand to form a visor above my eyes, even though the ambient darkness renders my action completely pointless. Habit is a stupid thing.

“Is that a bridge?”

Seems like it.

I break into a jog. My armour clinks loudly with each step, confirming once again that knights aren’t made for stealth.

I increase my vigilance towards the forest. Earlier I wanted troubles but got none. In my experience, that means I’m just about to get mobbed.

Unexpectedly however, I reach the structure without incident. I’m half-disappointed.

“Yep. It’s a bridge alright.”

I stare fixedly at the… strange construction.

By “strange”, I don’t mean its form. It’s just a wooden bridge. Although it’s kind of odd that it’s blue, and not because of paint by the looks of it. The wood itself is blue.

But if the real world can have stuff like purpleheart – the wood, not the military decoration awarded to US soldiers wounded or killed in battle – then blue-coloured wood in a fantasy world isn’t the least bit surprising.

I’m actually more surprised that I haven’t encountered blue wood ever before. I’ve seen the typical brown woods, of course, but also red bloodwoods, green lifewoods, grey steelwoods, and even a yellow with black strips type called tigerwoods. But deep blue woods? Never.

Well, I’ve never seen purple people either, nor green cows or rainbow monkeys. So really it doesn’t make this wood special just because it’s blue.

Exactly. And you’re paying far too much attention to this pointless detail.

True.

Back to the point. What’s really strange here, is the pristine condition of the bridge.

Everything else I’ve seen in this country in the past months was either rotten, rotting or in shambles. Except for nature itself, which is thriving. Thriving in this apocalyptical way so typical of a world where civilisation has fallen.

The road I’ve followed through the [Deadgrass Hills], to take this latest example, was little more than a few broken cobblestones forming a trail, like Hansel’s breadcrumbs leading into the evil woods. Except my witch was a squirrel with an oversized ego.

Even inside the fortified cities of the kingdom, disrepair runs rampant. Centuries of everlasting night and undead invasion have taken their toll on the citizens of Erwyn.

For generations, they spent their whole existence hidden behind walls, in constant darkness, with the ever present threat of the walking corpses outside looming over their heads. One might think that the lack of what they never knew couldn’t hurt them, but that’s just wrong.

Humans aren’t made to live in the dark. Their eyes are too weak. Obscurity weights on their minds. Dark thoughts thrive much easier in the absence of light. Even those who never saw the Sun can feel in their guts something is missing.

In the relative safety of their magical fortifications, the horror of the undead doesn’t let itself be forgotten by the people of Erwyn. It isn’t only some kind of virus spread by the monster themselves that turns people into stumbling cadavers hungry for the flesh of the living.

The Erwynian Plague is a country-wide curse. Every single person that dies comes back. Every single one. Burning the corpse is pointless. Worse, since it gives birth to spectres and other disembodied abominations.

I’ve seen them, wailing families throwing the lifeless bodies of their loved ones over the walls. Normally such practice would cause disease to fill the cities as the corpses rot, but within a couple days each dead would stumble back up and walk away aimlessly.

Animals seem unaffected by the curse, which leaves me wondering about the origin of many monsters in these parts, but still… no humanoid escapes it.

In these conditions, the Erwynians have almost become a nation of human-shaped husks, going through the motion of life but not truly living. I sometimes wondered why they don’t all just commit suicide, or at least stop making children and inflict new souls to this hell.

But I guess even in despair, the fear of death is still too strong.

As for then children… To be honest I have no idea. It’s not like they can’t help it. To speak crudely, contraceptive methods exist in this world. Not condoms, obviously, but between all the spells and potions in existence, preventing pregnancy really isn’t that much of a hurdle.

Maybe it’s a natural desire to want to keep the species going. Some kind of primal instinct. Or pride.

Maybe it’s a selfish fear of reaching old age without anyone to take care of you.

Maybe they find a sliver of hope in the notion and acts of parenthood.

Maybe they are under the delusion only the body of the dead gets reanimated by the necrotic curse, and ignore the fate of the souls trapped for eternity in their rotting prison of flesh, tortured, suffering and slowly sinking into madness. On that note, I have no clue whether my pseudo-holy solar magic actually frees those souls or simply consumes them. And frankly I don’t care.

So, no. I have no idea why anyone would knowingly inflict this to anyone, much less upon their descendants. I can’t understand. I can’t.

It’s always like that.

I can’t understand.

I believe that I am moderately good at reading people, at grasping their personalities and identifying patterns in their actions. But their motivations? The reason behind their behaviour? The ‘why’? I have no clue. Be them NPCs or human, people are irrational creatures. Confusing. Illogical. Absurd. Contradictory. Constrained by a bunch of self-imposed rules that make no sense to me.

Or maybe I’m the one who’s weird.

Nah. You’re perfectly fine.

Well… Maybe I am, maybe not. I couldn’t care less either way. In the end, only my own opinion really matters. It’s easier to think that everybody else is simply wrong and leave it at that.

But I’ve digressed again.

My point was: most of the Erwynian population is depressed. And when you’re depressed, taking care of your real estate is rarely the number one priority. Thus even the populated areas are falling apart.

Yet… here before me, in the middle of probably the creepiest forest in existence – that is not a swamp – far away from any known settlement, stands a wooden bridge that not only looks in perfect condition, but is also free of any kind of dirt or moss. Had someone told me this bridge was brand new, I wouldn’t have doubted them.

The sapphire-blue contraption arcs low above the tumultuous torrent of souls. It takes four arches to reach the other shore. Three pairs of large pillars support it, diving into the river but apparently undamaged by the half-immaterial spirits crashing against their bases. Though I still haven’t figured out exactly how these particular plasmatic spectres interact with physical objects beyond the fact they seem contained within the large canyon of the “river”.

Moreover, as it to further the sense of incongruity, the sides of the bridge are carved with intricate elegance. Impossibly detailed wooden blue roses bloom on the parapets, their long and thorny stems intertwined to form ethereal handrails, and brittle-looking leaves poking out here and there, unaffected by the soft breeze, like petrified.

The beautiful fairy-tale like construct is definitely out of place in this dark haunted place.

Absurd.

Ludicrous.

Farcical.

Ex-cel-lent!!

A wide grin twists my lips upwards.

“Finally.”

Chuckling a tad unhealthily, I run the last few metres. Then something catches my eye and I skid to a stop a couple steps away, looking down with a raised eyebrow.

Up close, I can see a road of yellowish cobblestones crossing over the river.

Strangely enough, the rectangular rocks making up the pavement don’t stop at the bridge, but continue onto the wooden desk. I guess this sort of explain the size of the pillars. In the other direction, towards the forest, the road quickly devolves into a dirt path after a mere handful of metres, which in turn is fast swallowed by the vegetation. The opposite shore is too far to confirm the state of the lane over there.

As I stand there by the oddly fancy bridge, contemplating whether it might be safe to step on the stones – which I now notice give off a faint glow – a realisation suddenly hits me!

My eyes widen briefly, then narrow and sharply trail along the brick road until it disappears from view at the apex of the bridge’s curve.

“Wait a minute. This is…”

* * * * *