Chapter Text
If Philip is certain about anything regarding the world beyond the portal, it is that the world beyond is absolutely hellish and utterly forsaken of any holiness. The aforementioned circle is created by a lineament of blue liquid applied to the border of his doorway. Through it, Philip is hit with the absolutely rancid smell of rotten flesh carried on a particularly humid gust of wind–even by Connecticut’s standards. The sky beyond the portal is a peculiar mixture of violet with sulfurous, yellow clouds marring the sunset-colored heavens (or lack thereof) above.
His heart starts to race, and his palms bead with sweat as he begins to understand the implications of his discovery, of his achievement. Philip has found the threshold of the same monstrous realm that all demons originate from. The same world that contains countless horrors that should never be seen by mortal eyes. Philip straightens, checking once more that he has all that he needs for his travel to the wicked realm.
Pens? Check. Journals? Check. Clothes, sewing kit, and cross? Check, check, and check.
He goes through the supplies of his satchel and rearranges his supplies. Philip wipes his palms on the wool of his jacket, struggling to dry his palms. The sound of his heart echoes in his eardrums, and he can barely focus on standing still, much less walking. All he can think about are the worst possible outcomes of his goal. Philip inhales deeply in an attempt to calm himself, and his head seems to swim as he stands there. Remember why you need to do this, he thinks. This is all for Caleb.
Philip steps through the portal.
Upon entering the realm that Philip believes to be none other than the pits of Hell, the very dimension that punished those unrepentant souls for eternity, he decides that it’s even worse than his first impression of it. The air is so ripe with the repugnant stench of rotting flesh that he can only imagine a battlefield before him, corpses left to fester in the baking sun. Philip can already feel bile rising in his throat. He should not have imagined such an image. The wind carries with it the sound of buzzing flies and the faintest indication of salt water.
Perhaps he should go back to town and gather more resources. Did he even remember to bring any provisions aside from a waterskin? Even worse–is there anything in the wasteland before him that he’ll be able to eat? Even as he surveys the area, noting an impossibly tall mountain in the distance that slowly dips into a natural basin that seems to encompass the widest region of the land, Philip continues to fret. Still, it would be better to take in the topography.
A gorge splits through the middle of the depression, carrying water from the ocean into the breast of the land. Peculiarly enough, there are several arched structures of gargantuan proportions, rising more than a hundred-score feet into the air. They remind him of the arches of bridges or used in architecture to bear loads, though they are incomplete and hang in an almost disjointed manner that leaves Philip with a sensation of nausea. It would be so easy for that to become unsound and crash down to the death of thousands. Attempting to sway his mind from the daunting features before himself, Philip affixes his focus to the furthest thing in the distance he can see. It is dominated by curved stone with two peaks jutting out from either side. Several caverns are visible, even where he’s from.
Oh! That section looks like a…
Philip stops and closes his eyes to let them unfocus, then surveys the landscape once more. This time, he focuses on the grander image of the islands before him, ignoring his desire to focus on the various small features vying for his attention. His stomach sinks, then twists with horror and revulsion. He wonders how he could have missed something so obvious.
The very island he stands atop is a tremendous, rotting corpse. The high mountain peak he had been noting earlier is clearly a knee, while the rocky, mountainous area furthest from him has the gruesome visage of a horned skull. The peculiar arches of rock are now easily identified as a rib cage, and Philip can easily note the arms spread off to the creature’s sides. At least that explains the smell, he thinks morbidly, pulling out a stylus to note it down in his journal. He jots down a few quick notes and a rough diagram of the corpse he stands atop.
His stomach churns with anxiety, and Philip looks once more over his shoulder for a look back at the woods he called home, for a brief moment of comfort to take with him to the trials ahead. His heart drops to his gut when he realizes the portal is already closed. He had anticipated that it was only temporary–after all, the temptress who had stolen his brother away had used the same method of smearing the blue liquid upon the arch, and her portal closed just before he could reach it. But…he hadn’t anticipated it to be quite so temporary. If he had known it would have been his last look upon the Human Realm, Philip would have treated the still night air and the dimming of the fireflies with more reverence.
Regardless, Philip decides, he has his goal, and he needs to make haste in his journey. The witch may have already–he cuts himself off before he can finish his thought process. Inhaling the putrid air once more, Philip takes note of his location, a little clearing near a cliff from which he can view the rest of the island. He presumes, from looking around, that he is somewhere upon the more mountainous area of the right wrist.
Philip does not look forward to the strenuous effort it will take to get from the peaks down to the peculiar…he hesitates to call it a town, really. Even from far above, he can see the monstrous forms jutting from the landscape and the disorganized nature of the buildings. If there is one thing that further cements this location as Hell in Philip’s mind, it is the utter lack of any organization or order–necessary pillars of any functional community, city, or country.
But this is not a functional society, Philip reminds himself. He needs to stop expecting it to be one. Any situation in which he behaves as if he were in the Human Realm is likely to get him injured or worse, and he’d do well to remember that. Stilling his nerves, he readjusts his satchel and once more chokes down the foul-scented air of the Realm. His lungs ache in a manner he only experiences after physical activity, and it only seems fitting to him that the very air he breathes is made with the intent to torment him.
There is no more use in delaying. Every moment he wastes worsens his chances of success. Warily, Philip begins to walk down the safest-seeming path from the top of the Carpal Bones down towards the settlement placed firmly on the flesh between the Radius and the Ulna. The ground squelches beneath his feet, and he shudders at the sound it makes before continuing on.
The trees are more akin to those from the Human Realm, he notices as he clambers over a fallen trunk. They’re rough and gnarled in a way that distinctly resembles eyes, but the leaves feel like just that. He swings an arm at his side while the other clutches at the strap of his satchel containing his few worldly possessions. What if something steals it? After all, Hell is supposed to be a place deprived of all order and left about as a chaotic mess for sinners to wallow in. Surely, there would be no laws against thievery or general skullduggery. Would it be praised due to the likely emphasis upon depravity?
Philip banishes the thought from his mind, adopting a more focused pace as he ducks under branches and navigates his way through the woods. The air is blowing from behind him, making it a touch easier to ignore the repulsive conditions of the environment. At least it carries the stench away.
He stumbles over slick rocks (they aren’t bone if he doesn’t look down) and ungracefully catches himself on his hands and knees. Withholding a curse at his situation, Philip forces himself to his feet and continues to wander, ignoring the newfound throbbing in his right ankle. It makes him wince whenever he lands particularly harshly on the limb, but he perseveres. All things considered, he thinks himself incredibly fortunate to have not been attacked by anything. Philip’s own thoughts about his luck vanish as he approaches a more difficult area.
The natural path he’s been wandering on falls away to a steep ravine that while not deadly, would hurt severely. The pale bone to get across is far slimmer than he feels comfortable crossing, especially considering the slick nature of the bone. Philip’s stomach thrums with nerves, and every fiber of his body trembles. He plants the first foot on the path, then the second. Clinging to sheer bone from which the ledge is whittled away from, he continues to inch across the chasm.
Time almost seems to halt as he moves at a pace that is both infuriatingly slow and horrifically fast, and it takes a great deal of patience to keep his speed constant and his pace controlled. Philip risks a glance downward and soon feels the consequences for doing so as his stomach roils tumultuously. With that, he looks up before turning his head to the right and firmly fixes his vision at the end of the path. Nope, nope, do not look down.
In quite an undignified manner, he scoots across a slender ledge before finally, finally approaching more level terrain. The moment he’s passed it, Philip collapses to the ground on his hands and knees, panting as if he’s run miles instead of inched across a ledge that is scarcely forty feet. He fishes the waterskin from his satchel and indulges in a couple sips before he hastily re-corks it and places it back in the bag. It’s important to indulge some, he knows, due to the tendency of many to attempt conserving their water until they drop dead, but Philip has no clue when next he’ll stumble upon consumable water. He doesn’t acknowledge how short of a trip it will be if this damned realm has no water fit for human consumption.
Philip stands up once more and stretches before he starts on the far more gentle slope downwards. It won’t be long until he finds that town. He has no desire to speak with the monstrous creatures of this realm, but he is no fool. His brother has been trapped in this realm for almost five years now, and this is a large island. He is at a disadvantage, and it will be necessary to prevent knowledge of his rightful disgust towards these creatures from getting out.
Sweat clings to Philip’s skin, hair, and clothes in an utterly disgusting manner that has him shuddering. He almost misses the frigid baths in the river back in Gravesfield–almost. Mostly, he longs for the oppressive humidity to lessen to a more comfortable amount. Philip scowls as he waves away a buzzing mosquito. His hand hits something solid, and he whips around with a cry of shock.
“Wha–”
It’s a peculiar creature that resembles a sprite of some manner, winged and dressed in remarkably miniature clothing. Its skin, Philip notes, is a most unnatural pigment of a vibrant violet. For a moment, it almost appears…not cute, but harmless. Then it opens a gaping maw to reveal dozens of large teeth and flies at him with an almost feral shriek.
Philip smacks the small creature as harshly as he can, sending it off into the underbrush, and promptly flees at a reasonable speed. As he settles into a more regular pace, the rumble of conversation, of movement, of life becomes apparent in his ears. Pushing aside another branch, he finds himself facing a large demonic settlement.
It’s utterly revolting. The buildings seem to be concocted of flesh and bone, made up in nonsensical manners that most definitely should not be possible. For goodness sake, there is a ginormous arm sprouting somewhere in the background with houses built up it, and it is clutching a house in its fingers. That is not natural in any sense of the word. At least, he notes with some relief, he cannot yet see the residents. He isn’t certain he can handle that quite yet.
As Philip walks about the town, trying to discern what order could be scrambled together, he comes across a grisly arch grown of flesh and bone–though that is nothing new. In text made up of some manner of gore that he believes to be organs, the name of the town is spelled out in a single word.
BONESBOROUGH
How barbaric.