The Jungles of Akropolia - The Dweller
I cannot say how long that I have lingered within the jungle. My memories of where I had come from have long sunk into the mire. The echoes of distance voices I once knew fill my head, but I do not remember their language. My being is foreign even to me.
At night I sometimes stroll among the vines and ferns. My machete slices the path before me, and none can stand in my path. I reach up and grab the vines to hoist myself up into the canopy. My cries echo in the darkness, and my soul yearns to hear a reply.
Sometimes, I see a light in the distance, which draws me like the moth to the flame. My feet fly through the sticky mud unencumbered from practice. As I approach the light will fade, just out of reach. I find the torches dropped in the mud, as if their owners do not wish to be found.
There was a time that I had made it to the light. It was held by a young boy, no older than six, who had wandered past the edge of the jungle. Filled with pity, I took it upon myself to help the boy find his way back home. To my chagrin, he fled, and I gave chase.
We ran through the underbrush maze. The boy, so unfamiliar with the ways of the jungle, wove a winding path whose loops were endless. The terrain, at last, and fell the boy. Tangled in the living vines, I rush to his aid as fast as I could, but it was too late.
Seeing blood flow from his mouth drove me mad. Something came over me, and nothing remained of the boy. I slept well that night after such a hearty meal.
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