Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin
Breathing deeply, Swinter forced him self to calm, allowing his thoughts to settle. The surrounding horrors of the place were bad enough, but it was the helplessness that truly suffocated him. Pushing himself to his feet, he was lost, so he gave no heed to direction. The long corridors were unnerving in their conformity. Smooth, gray stone and evenly spaced windows. Some windows emitted an eerie, cold glow; others were voids as black as pitch. Occasionally, he would glimpse the great tilting pillar with its glowing pinnacle, and he’d try to momentarily reorient himself towards it.
The pathway soon narrowed, and the featureless buildings gave way to a dark chasm. He stopped at the edge, looking down into an abyss that strangled the light. The silence was unnerving, broken only by the mechanical, grinding sound of the chain high above him on the immense pillar. Absent mindedly, he thought, what happens when the chain is finally cut through? Will the chasm's ceiling collapse, freeing the souls of the damned?
A sudden, high-pitched squeal—like a pig's dying shriek shot out of the abyss. Swinter frantically forced his thoughts away from the sound and onto the only way forward. A bridge of solid, smooth gray stone arched out over the void. Barely two feet wide and devoid of handrails. Not typically afraid of heights, this narrow bridge looked like it would crumble from a slight breeze.
He started to back away, but spun around as a fresh squeal came from behind. Coming from behind, three large shapes appeared out of the shadows. One stopped, noticed him, and let out another ear-splitting shriek before all three creatures began to run, or rather, hobble quickly in his direction. Shaking his head, Swinter turned and carefully inched his way onto the bridge. The aged stone was so skinny, and it crumbled along the edges, sending small fragments into the void below him.
Swinter made it to the halfway point just as the shapes reached the chasm's edge. He still couldn't get a clear look at them, but they were humanoid, naked, and over their many fat rolls was covered in putrid, pink flesh. The scent was almost overpowering, a sickening stink that struck him like a physical blow. Blinded by the nauseating odor, he stumbled, trying to keep his senses, and he desperately worked his way across the remaining span. Landed on the far side, collapsing onto his back, overwhelmed but immediately relieved to find the monstrous forms had retreated. That stench had been worse than the pile of corpses he’d awakened in. From his prone position, he looked back at the bridge he had traversed. To his shock, it had no visible support underneath; what held it up, he couldn't guess. Then, as if an act of divine intervention, the stone cracked, broke apart, and fell into the blackness of the void. Swinter rubbed his face as the stark reality forced itself to the forefront of his mind. Going back was not an option.
Turning around, he had only one choice: a large, jagged crack in the wall of the Labyrinth. This platform he found him self had originally been a dead end. But from what looked like an explosion, a chunk of the stone wall was broken out, revealing a way forward. He walked toward the artificial exit. Stopping at an ancient bronze sign, clear that what had happened had happened a very long time ago. No shine remained, just heavy oxidation and wear. Squinting, he managed to read the fractured inscription:
...life of sin... Punished and Cursed... urning back now, ...on.y ... Forward.........Dambed
Sarcastically thinking that was a good sign of things to come, Swinter stepped through the opening. He was met by straw effigies being hung from the ceiling. They were crude representations of what Swinter assumed were old gods. The straw that made them was caked in dust, and when he poked at it disintegrated.
Inside, the labyrinth walls were still the same featureless gray rock, devoid of any ornamentation. The great pillar’s radiance, though faint, somehow managed to penetrate this far. Swinter tripped over himself; his footfalls made no sound. He moved from one gray hall down a ramp into another, sweating profusely and beginning to hyperventilate. Balling his hands into fists, he beat a slow rhythm against his chest as the panic swelled. As the pain he was causing grew stronger, as his flesh became bruised, it allowed the growing panic in his mind to recede.
He stopped at an intersection, closing his eyes, focusing only on his breath. It was the lack of sensory stimulation—he hadn’t heard a sound other than his own ragged breathing for how long. That, coupled with the environment's total lack of color beyond the uniform wraith gray, was driving him to the edge, like a prisoner long confined to solitary. The physical pain from striking his chest provided just enough stimulation to pull him back.
He carried on, utterly lost now. The terror of the bridges had faded as he walked over one after another now. As his fear subsided, curiosity took its place as he gazed down into the endless abyss. Other times, he could spot pathways far below. As he walked down a stone ramp that encircled a bottomless pit, he spied a group of strange, red-robed priests far beneath him. They marched in two lines, walking and flagellating themselves in perfect, morbid synchronization. Even from his high vantage, Swinter could see the dark slashes bleeding down their backs.
The soul-freezing squeal again stabbed at his mind as three dark shapes emerged from the shadows, running toward the robed figures. In unison, the priests dropped their whips and pulled daggers, but to no avail. The three squealing monsters were upon them before the blades were fully drawn. Swinter watched, dumbfounded, as the robed figures were killed within minutes, their bodies crushed by the powerful jaws of the beasts. It was a surreal spectacle, watching the faces of the dying men without hearing a single scream. A few priests managed to strike back, but the creatures’ hides were too thick and gnarled, and the daggers shattered upon impact.
Blood and gore spattered the gray stone. Thinking the brutal scene was over, Swinter began to back away. Then the creatures did something that turned his stomach. They began to eat the corpses. It wasn't the act of consumption that sickened him—monsters eat, after all—but the sheer ravenous quality of it, as they consumed flesh and bone alike. Halfway through, Swinter could tell they were getting full, but the creatures didn't stop until their macabre meal was finished. The three creatures then simply lay on their sides, bellies hideously distended, unable to move.
Disgusted, Swinter moved on down the steadily declining path. The long hall eventually opened into another vast gallery, a sight that took his breath away. It was simply titanic in size, bridges and staircases by the hundreds traversed the chasm at levels both above and far below him. Many were broken or in disrepair, but most looked smooth and strong. Many of the bridges intersected with others a person could jump from one to another. Numerous stairways led up, but none were close enough to reach, leaving his only option to continue descending toward the abyss.
The corridor turned, and he found himself face-to-face with the three passed-out monsters. Bellies full, they noticed him, but they didn’t even try to move. Just lay there farting and wheezing. This was a blessing, as the overwhelming stench was back, making it hard for Swinter to stand. Half-blinded and nauseous, he made it past them, the smell clinging to his nostrils for hours.
Further down the hall, he noticed the smooth stone surface became sharply textured. He stopped to examine the change. The roughness looked like tree bark. Reaching out to touch it, some of the wall flaked away. He breathed a sigh, moved on, and nearly fell to the ground. The barrier between smooth and rough was like a gateway; the air here was cold and stale, weighing down on him as if gravity itself had intensified. Righting himself, he forced his way onward.
The walls quickly lost their smoothness and became rippled like round posts set touching each other. Rounding the bend, the changing landscape gave way to a strange forest. So strange to find this. Swinter took a few seconds to comprehend what he was seeing. The strange forest was dead and fossilized. He marveled at how the leaves and needles still clung to their branches, as if the entire forest had been fossilized instantaneously. Looking closely at the trunk of what had surely been an Aspen, he noticed a tiny stone ladybug—its antennae and three spots on its shell clearly visible.
Memories of the old world struck him hard, closing his eyes, taking several deep, desperate breaths. Memories of blue sky and sunny days, with the wind and smells of nature, struck him almost painfully. Longing to smell the trees, to catch a hint of hearth smoke or grass—anything from the world before the great tuning and its perversions. But only the stale, cold air met his senses, and reality crashed back down. The world was a dark place now, no joys, only disappointments.
Wandering through the petrified woods, he stumbled out into a clearing. It was an old homestead. It had a small garden, a little wooden house, and children at play, all frozen in stone. As he walked toward the cabin, he felt a faint vibration in the stillness. Moving closer, the vibration increased, seeping into his head and causing a sharp, blinding pain. Quickly retreating, cursing under his breath as his nose began to bleed.
At a safe distance, his anger grew. What happened here was Alchemy, more precisely, its ultimate taboo necromancy. Someone of great power had likely used the village as a sacrifice to power darker magics, but something had gone catastrophically wrong. Those responsible failed and, as a result, tore a piece of their world, crashing it into the realm of existence. Rubbing his face, Swinter thought to himself self "kind of like a splinter in one's finger."
Allowing his fury to momentarily overrun his caution, Swinter moved quickly toward the fossilized children. His mind burned with pain, but he managed to stumble within arm's reach. A chilling discovery made him stop. Large animal teeth were stuck in the stone figures. Retreating to a safe distance, he grabbed his head, squeezing and rubbing until the pain subsided. Something had tried to eat the children, but left with broken teeth. The animal must have been the size of a man with powerful jaws.
Resigned to the fact that he could do nothing for the petrified people, Swinter sighed and moved on. The remnants of his path became an old creek bed, and with no other choice, he followed it. In the distance, he heard that blood-curdling squeal once more, and he quickened his pace. Around a bend in the creek, he passed three deer that had been drinking before the event. As he moved past, Swinter consciously avoided looking into the animals’ eyes—a silly superstition, perhaps, but in a place this foul with magic, he remembered the old saying that survived the great tuning: “The eyes are the windows to the soul”. He rubbed at himself, trying to remove the necromantic filth, ignoring the fact that the filth landed on the soul, not the skin.
For what he guessed was a solid day, Swinter carefully walked down the creek. Careful of the water, for waves and ripples were razor sharp as a result of the fossilization. The monsters' squeals became more frequent and closer. By the time his path ended at a waterfall, the squeals sounded as if they were right on top of him. Gazing down at the waterfall, it was beautiful, the water frozen in place so quickly that all the details of the water were in place. The creek embankment was too high and steep to climb out. Trapped between falling to his death or being eaten alive, all the fear and anxiety that had been building up in him dissolved away.
With a wry smile, he shook his head. The monsters had found him and were charging. As they drew closer, Swinter finally got a clear look at them. Giant humanoids with pink, leathery skin and snouts for noses. They looked like the physical manifestation of cruelty, the forced union of a man and a pig.
They squealed and picked up speed, frenzied and desperate. Swinter ran to the edge of the falls and looked down. The fossilized water looked like it could be climbed. Just as he was about to descend, a thought struck him, and he grinned. Standing tall, head held high, as the rushing pigmen grew close. Sensing their prey was vulnerable, they began to salivate, rushing faster, more frenzied, as if they hadn't eaten in months. Just as the monsters reached him, Swinter jumped into a small depression the water had made as it was frozen. The creatures, driven by pure, desperate hunger, were too committed to their charge and missed Swinter entirely, running straight off the falls.
Squeals of pain as the pigmen hit and scraped against the jagged edges of the frozen water. The stone droplets, like razor blades, sliced and crushed them into pulp. Satisfied, Swinter took his time climbing down the falls. Cursing to him self every couple of feet as he cut him self.
Upon reaching the bottom, he had left the petrified forest and returned to the strange labyrinthine world. Looming above, he could see the gray bridges intersecting through the chasm. The faint, cold glow of the tower light was visible again. He smirked at the irony, still lost after days and farther from his goal. But the lifeless gray stone was almost a comfort after the sheer wrongness of the petrified world.
With a grin of satisfaction, he looked down at the corpses of the pig monsters. They were nothing more than broken bones and bloody pulp, a gruesome smear where their bodies had scraped over the jagged falls. Taking that as a win, Swinter moved on, but his mirth didn't last long. The sound of squeals became barely audible, growing louder as he advanced until he came to a rectangular chasm. This one had a high ceiling with no sign of the labyrinth above. The cold, bluish-white light that had accompanied him was tainted here, turning into a sulfurous yellow.
The smell was overpowering. He tore strips from his shirt and crammed wads of fabric up his nose, working himself into a frenzy to prepare for a fight. But the expected danger was stopped short by a great cobblestone wall. It was forty feet high, laid out in thick brickwork fashion, and it stretched endlessly into the blackness on both sides.