A rough shove pushed him through a threshold of some sort.

No explanation had come. He was pushed and prodded and forcibly moved against his will, but no explanation ever came. He did not understand why he was there, why he was suffering, or what was happening in his vicinity.

He did recognize the disdain, the measurements, and the fact he was stuck in some form of primitive prison.

Why though, that was the question. When Thanatos had offered him a boon, Nick had gladly accepted, relieved that he could avoid the ego death that the beyond entailed.

He was now stumbling and sprawling onto rough stones in a dark space. A loud metallic clanking came suddenly from the direction he had been shoved. He turned in time to see a metal gate slam into place.

He blinked in the darkness. The space was either so broad as to defeat the scant light available, or the space had been painted with vanta-black. Either way, he could barely see the gate and the stone walls which were within touching distance.

Where had they put him? He was unsure.

From what he could tell, he was looking at some form of medieval fortress from the outside; however the space he now found himself was not open-air. No, it seemed he was in a fairly large cavern, larger than a stadium at the very least. The fortress seemed to be blocking the path of egress.

An awful realization began to settle into Nick’s bones. He was trapped here. Off in the distance, behind him, he saw dim lanterns along ramshackle structures which could only qualify as buildings if the most generous of definitions were applied. Though he supposed roofs would be unnecessary with the cavern above.

This was all he had time to realize before he was interrupted by a woman’s guttural barking from the otherside of an angled slit in the wall. It was not the English language, but he found he could understand what she said.

“-Prisoner!” she shouted. “Clear the area!”

He was unable to spot her within the recesses of the fortress, but he could tell where her voice had generally come from. He turned towards this source to lodge his protests.

“And what do you expect me to do?” He asked, keeping a cool head despite how lesser people may have panicked. Years in a boardroom honed him into something that would not so easily bend, at least not without feeling out any possible advantages.

“You want me to shoot?!”

“Of course not, no.”

Nick continued to stare at where he thought the woman was. His imagination began playing tricks, showing him a woman taking aim with a rifle or crossbow or some other implement. He squashed these imaginings before they could wreak havoc with his bravery. As he continued to steel his nerves, the woman cursed.

“Gonna be a hard one? Godslickin’ fool! Go head to that town over there; maybe make friends, ask around, do whatever! Maybe do what you’re supposed to do and get to hunting!

Hunt what? Nick almost asked, but the woman continued her tirade.

“-Now, clear the area! Get behind the line!”

He was told to hunt, he had been called a prisoner, and he seemed to be locked into a sealed location where a jury-rigged town had been constructed from likely local resources. These observations led Nick to the conclusion that he had been sentenced to some form of penal-colony.

“-Five!”

But before he could press for details, the woman began her countdown.

“Four!”

He saw movement in several backlit slits in the wall. He suspected that those may have been other guards–likely armed with pointy sticks or bits of metal–but also possibly with crossbows. There had definitely been shadows moving, though. That had not been his imagination. Would his jailors truly injure him, even though he was presumably some form of indentured servant?

He doubted it, but he could not be certain.

“Three!”

And there were things besides simply injuring him that they could inflict. If he had some form of balance to work off, or an outstanding debt, they might simply add to the sum and lengthen his sentence. He decided it was best to avoid risking it.

He spun and marched towards the blocks demarcating the space that prisoners were to keep clear. There was a path that traveled between the stones, one that was worn flat. It led towards the town in the distance.

Without knowing what else he was to do, he followed the path towards the town, already wondering what questions he should prioritize when he arrived. If it was a penal-colony as he suspected, then there would undoubtedly be a large number of unsavory and violent individuals. But if the jailors were to leave this town ungoverned, it would likely be detrimental to the bottom line of whatever this town was to produce. Nick decided that there was likely some element of control present, perhaps akin to a privatized police force. Likely, so long as he took care, he would be safe enough. Especially if he kept to the better lit areas.

Loathsome the town was, though.

During his approach, he inspected the town further. There were lanterns with tinted lenses or bulbs, casting a variety of mismatched colors where any light was visible at all. The assortment of colors was the only flattering thing, and even then he suspected from the cracked membranes and irregular jury rigged casings that the mismatched colors had not been intentional. The lights had been attached to the sides of several buildings made of not wood, but stone and bits of bone and hide. There may have been some sinew threading and holding hides taut. Despite this limitation in material, several of these buildings were over two stories in height.

The tallest of the crude buildings had three stories thereabouts, though it did have a tilt to it. However, there was one stone tower that stood taller than the rest. This tower seemed to be styled similarly to the fortress. Likely that was the local garrison for the policing force, which confirmed his suspicions.

After he reached the town, the path into a busy boulevard. Busy not with traffic, but with loitering men and women and outdoor styled markets. He may have sneered as he passed through one of these merchants until he finally found what might have been a reputable vendor, at least for this town.

Several layabouts, shirtless men covered in intricate tattoos, watched Nick. The attention left Nick uncomfortable, a prickling tension along his nape, a cold and damp sensation invading his armpits.

He could have sworn he heard several of these men speaking ill of him. Something along the lines of, “-fresh meat-” although Nick was certain he was imagining it, putting words where he had only heard a murmur.

Regardless, Nick decided to get off the street. He was just so happening to be passing one of the larger marketplaces, an open air storefront marked with a variety of goods and clothes, though most were a bleached yellow or tan, likely due to the lack of dyes. He had remembered reading that somewhere, that dyes had been expensive once upon a time, before capitalism.

He entered the storefront and saw the assumed clerk. Nick met the clerk’s eyes and exchanged a greeting. OR attempted to.

“Excuse me my good man,” he said, catching the eye of a clean man who was leaning against the wall. “What can you tell me of–”

The clerk spoke in a lazy drawl, indifferent to the fact that Nick had been speaking.

“A new lich then? I had thought they had stopped… did the wardens give you any chits by chance? Or just the clothes on your back?”

The clerk eyed the relatively poor quality shirt and trousers hungrily. This took Nick aback, as the clothes were likely coarse wool and were undyed.

“Excuse me, but you speak of chits, is that the local form of currency then?

The clerk tsked. “Sounds like a no then. With how dumb you look, you’re not gonna be lasting long. My advice is to start running and not to stop until you figure out how to survive.” The clerk nodded in the direction Nick had been walking, had he stayed on the boulevard. “That there’s the dungeon. Best you get.”

Nick perhaps was taking a bit too long to process everything that he heard. There was a dungeon somewhere, and he was supposed to hunt. But what exactly was a dungeon, and what was he supposed to be hunting for? Was this how he would increase his own Godsmark?

And Nick had been called a lich. Now that Nick was looking at the wares a bit closer, he thought they might have been made from bone, although how bone had been molded into that shape was an entirely different question.

The clerk scoffed. “Yep. A dumb one. Next time be sure to hit the dungeon first.”

“What, but–” Nick started when he was jerked down and back.

A heavy weight had hit his shoulder.

The clerk continued, indifferent to the fact that Nick was being accosted.

“-Too slow,” the clerk said.

The force continued pulling Nick backwards, out from the storefront. The movement was startling, but by the time he had been dragged several feet he realized it was a meaty hand attached to a tattoo covered arm. There were several other of these thugs waiting out in the street.

“Now hold on!” Nick began to protest. When it seemed that other than a few curious glances that none of the onlookers would come to his aid, he began shouting for help. As he took a breath to do so, a fist landed in his gut, driving the air from him. Another hit his chin, causing him to see stars.

The thugs were still dragging him.

He lost track of his surroundings, but he seemed to have been taken to an alleyway just off the boulevard.

His situation was dire.

He thrashed to get free, intent on gaining space or forcing someone to help him, or at the very least making these criminals work for it, to show he was not merely an easy mark. One of the men swore. That might have been Nick. Things were fuzzy. He thought he might have had a concussion. There were stones and rough edges but nothing sharp–idly he wondered if they were trying to keep his clothes free of blood, but of course that would be ridiculous–

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

-A sharp pain with a sense of falling and vertigo.

–gradually awareness returned, not quickly, not easily, but as though he was trapped within a dream. Sensations were absent, barely a consciousness remained.

Slowly a vague feeling of itching settled in, as though ants were crawling through his flesh.

The itching grew in intensity. He would have scratched himself raw to spare himself, except his motor nerves had yet to be regrown. He was helpless, more so than a newborn babe.

He would have called out for mercy if he could. He was uncertain if he had even regrown his lungs yet, if he was even breathing.

The phantom impression of twitching came next.

In one area, that he could not exactly locate, the itching would fade, but only to be replaced in another area, more so than the first.

Of course he recognized what was happening. Even in the dream-like state, as he gradually re-inserted his mind into his body, he knew what was occurring. He was being regrown about his so-called ‘phylactery.’ Which meant he was once again in custody of the inquisitors, or the wardens, or whatever fool name they went by.

The itching was awful. The clicking, creaking, unceasing sensory as nerves stretched themselves to reconnect his brain to his body. He felt irritated that his mind had to be reattached first. He could have been spared most of this pain otherwise.

At the very least, his wardens could have given him a pain-killer or anesthetic of some sort.

Hell, even a stiff drink would have helped.

But no, his captors provided no such aid.

Oh how he loathed them. Trapped in the emptiness, accompanied only by the itch. Then came hallucinatory sensations, pricks and tingles, portions of him felt hot and cold at the same time, his skin reported a mixture of textures, at least he assumed those impressions were from his skin. He felt wet. Grimy. Covered in slime that burned.

His hearing was close to returning, as he now was experiencing tinnitus in all its various pitches. If the more delicate organs were starting, then his body was close to sustaining itself, which meant that soon his captors would reveal themselves.

He was beginning to see phantom visions when they came.

A hard pressure was applied to his chest, followed by a spreading, then a yank.

A hollowness settled in where it had been removed from. They had stolen his phylactery. His body felt empty. He felt pain in his left shoulder. He ached and felt short of breath all at once. His regeneration slowed, but never stopped. The pain lessened, but always remained.

Why were the wardens acting this way, what were their motivations? Nick tried to understand his oppressors.

His most recent memories had been muddled, but he was beginning to remember the worst of it. The stuff tied to strong emotions. Like the outrage attached to the fact that he had been sentenced without a trial, he had been sent to a penal-colony of some sort, although the terms of his sentence had never been explained, at least not that he remembered. There was a cavernous space though, he remembered that much.

He stewed in these partial recollections for some time before he finally regained his vision. It came blurrily at first. He inspected his physical state. He was nude, which made sense as he had just been created anew. His hair had yet to reform. His skin seemed raw or missing in some places, but the regeneration was continuing apace.

Of course, what truly drew his attention was his surroundings.

A foul and congealed substance was dripping on him. The same substance covered the ground in a puddle of a slurry of flesh, bits of fat and bone and skin… it reminded him of an extra wet mix of sausage packings. Looking up, he saw several openings that were leaking the… stuff. The stink of it told him some of the stuff had gone bad.

He wanted to gag. Intellectually, he felt he should be vomiting in disgust. However, the visceral reaction never came. Which was fine. It would have been a sign of his own weakness anyways.

He climbed to his feet quickly, if unsteadily, wiping the foulness off.

The cellar-like room was recessed and a mix of metal and stone. A heavy iron door, rusted, lacking a handle from his side, had several open slats which was the only source of light.

He went to the door and tried pushing on it. The metal felt rough and tore his palms slightly.

He wrapped his fingers around the slats and tried pulling, but it did not budge, not even in the slightest.

The room stank even worse after he had finished regenerating his nostrils and sense of smell.

Naturally, he attempted to call out, for somebody to come and let him out from this pit, to give hims a blanket, or clothes, or even a hand-towel for god’s sake. His voice echoed down the hall, but there came no response. Once more, he called out.

In the distance, he heard movement. Or he thought he did. There was a rhythmic shuffling sound. A person may have been coming.

He called out once more, forcing his voice to remain calm and confident, for he refused to sound desperate. The shuffling came closer. He called once more. The shuffling paused for a moment, then seemed to grow more distant. In the stone halls, sounds echoed strangely, and he felt uncertain as to what he heard.

An hour passed, or felt like it, before the shuffling came near once more. This time he held his tongue, waiting for something, anything, to happen. The shuffling resolved into footsteps. A slow and plodding pace, heavy as well.

Were these his captors then, he wondered.

He pressed his cheek to the door, ignoring the prickling cold metal in order to catch a glimpse of whoever this person was. And a glimpse of them, he caught.

It was a heavy set woman, a thick jaw, almost neanderthal in appearance. She lumbered, had short hair, wore a heavy jacket and large steel-toed boots. She carried a truncheon in one hand.

He would be lying if he said he was not somewhat intimidated by the woman. She was taller than he was.

Still, though, he would not let this opportunity pass just because he was afraid of what might happen.

When the woman was nearly before his cell, he cleared his throat and spoke as confidently as he could, as though he were meeting with the board.

“About time,” he said. “Are you finally going to let me out of this pit?”

Despite his query, she remained mute, stepping up to the cell-door impassively. Her eyes passed over his, but it was as if he did not exist. He would have called out in offense, demanding the attention he was owed, but she was unlocking the door.

The brute of a woman spoke.

“Move,” she said.

The door creaked on its hinges as it opened, pushing into him before he could react. The metal struck him, cracking his nose and sending him falling backwards into the slurry. He held his face, confused, looking up at the woman’s silhouette in the doorway.

She acted as though she had not just assaulted him.

“Come,” she said.

When he hesitated, just slightly, she stepped down into the slurry, splashing, and brought her truncheon down. It struck his chest, but not heavily enough to do more than leave a bruise. The truncheon remained there, pressing against him, making breathing difficult enough that he was tempted to lean back further.

All the while, she waited impassively.

He pushed the truncheon away, or tried to. It remained unyielding for the first several seconds, before the woman relented and stepped back. As he was holding onto the truncheon, the woman pulled him along with her. She stepped back from the room and continued lifting the truncheon until he had his feet under him. Belatedly, he realized she had set him down in the hallway. Even more belatedly, she yanked the truncheon away from him, causing his fingers to smart.

It was then that she issued another command along with a gesture.

“Walk,” she said.

He stumbled when she gave a shove. The woman was large enough that he doubted he could take her in an even fight, especially in his current state. So rather than protesting, he turned and obeyed. Of course he had many questions and many demands he wanted to make. But he was naked, and he would rather have his backside to her than her front.

Still, he tried to get at least some information from this warden.

“Where are we going?” he asked, continuing to walk with her at his back.

She did not respond.

“Will I get clothes at least?”

Nothing. She had the gall to say nothing.

Before he wasted his breath further, they reached another doorway, with no obvious mechanism.

He stopped before it.

She pulled a lever that he had failed to notice at first.

The heavy door lifted as the lever was pulled, the mechanism seemingly took much strain and constant pressure applied to the lever, judging by the woman’s grunt as she pulled it.

When the door was lifted, he saw a descending tunnel.

Nick glanced back at the woman. She was holding the lever down with one arm, the other still with the truncheon, one he noticed was long enough to still reach him.

“Go.”

“Just where am I supposed to go to? And will I be provided clothing when I get there?”

“Go,” she grunted more forcefully.

Meanwhile, given her mulish behavior, he was wondering if she was perhaps mentally retarded, or at the very least special needs.

As he was still hesitating, the woman lost patience and jabbed her truncheon into his ribs.

The blow caused him to step back in a stumble, nearer to the raised door and the grimy dark descending stairs.

“Go.”

She raised the truncheon for a heavier blow.

“Alright, I’m going,” he said, waving away as he stepped past the door.

He paused and turned to look just as a rapid clicking and groan alerted him to the fact that the door was falling quickly and gaining speed.

He jumped further away from the door as it clanged with a crash. Behind him, where the open doorway had been, was now a solid slab of metal. The woman remained on the other side of it, meaning that he was on his own once more.

He almost spoke to himself to vent, but he was beyond showing such weakness. Especially when it might draw attention to him and his current nude state.

Humiliating.

Also, cold and uncomfortable. The stones were slick with filth thick enough to squeeze between his toes. He was still covered in rotten viscera. He stood alone at the top of a stairway that descended downwards with no obvious light sources.

And yet, he could still see?

Odd, he thought. How could he see without light? He glanced down at the unsightly tattoo on his right forearm, or the Godsmark as it was called. It seemed different from the last time he had seen it, maybe it grew, and maybe he now had better eyesight as a result?

These were all questions he had no way to answer. He groused to himself as he remembered that before he shook his head and put his feelings on the matter aside. He focused instead on what he wanted to achieve, then on how to get there.

His short term goals were the easiest to act on and would in no way impede his long term goal of freedom and prosperity. What he needed immediately was safety, clothing, and a bath. Remaining where he was would provide none of those.

Returning to the vile shanty town might provide some of those things if he had some form of currency and the ability to defend himself.

Considering that his Godsmark would grow with him as he experienced new things and that he could gain those experiences by venturing beyond the shanty town, he settled on the best course of action.

The so-called dungeon. He sneered.

But at least it would grant him the environment where he could improve himself, pull himself up by his bootstraps, so to speak. And if some god-forsaken monster were to kill him, at least he would be no worse off than he had already been.

With his determination only growing, he made his way along the cavern’s wall, skirting the penal-colony and avoiding the thugs therein, he eventually reached the descending passageway that presumably led to the dungeon.

Once there, he began to follow the path downwards, sometimes a ramp, and other times stairs.

Then it opened up into many branches, reminiscent of a porous stone like pumice, except these openings were all well worn and littered with garbage. Warm air was flowing up from the tunnels, although not quickly enough to be called a breeze.

He chose one of the less traveled passages and descended.