Rugged wet wriggles.
Between his arse, within his ears, slivers in his throat, all while mud packed his mouth.
A stiff cold coffin, every nudge he made exhausted his tightening breath. No matter how much he shoved, inched, shuffled his neck, his heart raced to the point he blacked out. Then he'd awaken again, worms and whatever other vermin took to every hole on his body.
What the fuck happened?
He was well on his way, clearing one champion after another, slaying monsters, wiping out entire armies, a feared warlord across a nation.
There was no way out of the ground, and he rested a bit longer before exhausting himself to death again. Each time he awakened, the worms within his arse itched so much he muffled loud as he could to ignore it.
"Grrr!" He muttered, his first words at last.
Another head tilt, and whiffs of shit filled his nostrils.
No more than the tip of his nose was out, taking in slugs, ants, and any swamp bugs without a shred of honor. He swallowed a few, but the slug clung to his throat. With no room to vomit, he let the grimy fuck swell and deflate within his mouth.
Breath stifling, he took one last long exhale.
Darkness took him again.
For a number of days he let himself suffocate, allowing his mind some rest. One could've spent the rest of the age below ground, unknown to the rest of the world. If only there were a way to drink, maybe see the innkeepers glowing face one in a while.
'Kill this demon scum!.....'
Kill them all.
Kill them all, he thought over and over again.
Upon the next awakening he moved his legs more than his arms. A few days passed, and he had the strength to break free, just the neck above ground. Arms still stuck, he twisted his hips, groaning like a mule. Flies swarmed his mouth and eyes, and he bit a few of them, chewing sour gruel to get the dry dirt off his tongue.
He choked on a massive worm, spikes on the ends of it, and yet again woke up with a mouth full of mud.
After breaking above ground he yelled, loud as he could. A dry raspy whine, within murky dark green shades surrounded by other wretches. Soulless, they were called, and none but a few of them looked his way.
One stared, struggling to stand with a coiled staff.
An arm above ground, and he pushed, dragging himself free.
Naked, bugs scurrying out and within him, he cursed while rolling back and forth. Heart beating like a war drum, anymore movement would over exhaust him. He was bleeding out every hole, drenched in foul sweat, skin wrinkled like old leather, and his breath shortened.
Above him hovered a bottle, the lad with a staff kneeling, with dark red messy hair.
"Motherfucker," Peter said, letting a few drops fall into his mouth, "ya' look like hammered shit."
Lukewarm water felt like heaven from above, running down his throat.
What little strength he had, he grasped the bottle. Peter let him drink it dry, then helped him up.
They made their way to the ends of the narrow passage. Further ahead was all he knew too well, his first trials of the soulless lands.
Croaks, snarls, dung piles, and bloody corpses, it was all he knew for a number of years. Were he gods fearing he may have found himself within a dungeon, or at pearly gates with an end to the long hell of living.
Peter sat him down beside a fire, offering up another flask with some bitter brewed concoction.
"Call it my swamp special," Peter muttered, pulling out a wood pipe. "The locals say its boiled piss."
A few sips, and he spat.
It was boiled piss, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise.
He drank it anyway, as it numbed his senses.
For the rest of the day he sat swamp side with the mad lad, drinking and munching on roasted frogs. A few scabby skinned soulless stalked their way, and a wave of Peter's staff kept them back. The mad lad tossed them a few scraps, promising he'd get a larger catch by morning.
"They always fall for it," Peter said, scratching his stubby beard.
He was about to toss a few spare toad legs himself, yet a weeping woman caught his eye.
She was tucked away, head against her knees, beside a moss ridden cliffside. No one dared near her, as she held a sharp rock within her hands. It bled her palms, but she ignored the pain, wiping her tears with her arms. Hair no longer bright, ridden with mud and gods knew what else, Allison looked up as he approached.
"Al," he said, holding a hand out. "Allison?"
She scrambled up, pointing the rock at him.
Not a word, though she murmured beneath her breath. Like a stray dog, her eyes were alert, she had a thirst for blood, yet an empty stomach more than anything. He held out a toad leg, and she spat at him.
"Al, it's me," he said, beginning to doubt if it really was her. "The brute. The iron headed ogre."
She backed away, getting closer to the water.
"Don't!" He said, serpents hissing below.
SSSsssssssSSSSSssssss
He dropped the toad leg at his feet, then backed away.
Al was stiff, rock still pointed at him. She took a step forward. Water lashed, a serpent springing out with bright green eyes. One bite snapped her shins, and she collapsed.
He leaped atop the swamp python, though it whipped him around like a rodent. Slung against the cliffside, he fell just as Al was dragged beneath the water. Her screams lasted for no more than a heartbeat, water bubbling for several seconds.
More green eyes appeared.
Blood leaked from his head, and he didn't bother to get up.
A staff waving Peter, fire atop the head, warded off any more would be predators, then helped him up.
"Best not to bother some of 'em," Peter said, sitting him down by the fading fire. "Figured a native ought know that."
"I know her," he said, shaking his head.
Peter raised an eyebrow. "Oh I see. One of those Embers tagging along with ya'?"
"Aye. A damn good shot."
"I see," Peter said, leaning back. "Well, we'll see her again in the morning. I'll help ya' dig her up if she's not in a fighting mood."
"You plan on staying here forever?" He asked, shoving Peter's foot. "You've got enough strength, more than me even."
Peter didn't answer at first, then shrugged. "Call it will of the Lord."
"Fuck's the Lords got to do with it?"
"Not the lords, the, Lord."
Had he the strength, he'd have clouted some sense into the madman.
"What lord, is the lord? They're all cunts, the whole lot, all eight of 'em cursing us and their children, and their champions! What the fuck are you on?"
Peter leaned himself up, staring at the light in his eyes reflected from the fire.
"You'd have been none the wiser, but there is only one god where we're from."
"So he's the lone fucker who pu-."
"Careful!" Peter snapped. "I've tested his mantle once in a lifetime. Rather not do it in hell."
He tried growling, but coughed instead.
After taking a sip of boiled piss, he asked, "So the one god left you here to rot?"
"Don't see why not," Peter said, looking around. "Told myself the first time I was here I'd not come back if I ever found a way out. If I did, then I'd take it as a sign."
After laying back down Peter touched the withering fire with his staff, and the flames went out.
"A sign my sins are not forgotten."