Ackster didn't know what was going on. His thoughts were doughy and sluggish. All around him was a thick, grey mist obscuring everything but the drab and dull sun-less sky. And he stood on muddy soil that seemed to stretch on endlessly in every direction.
The mud was cool, soft, and smooth.
Ackster couldn't think of much, not even why he was in this deserted hellscape. But he could realize, even without doing anything, that lying down on the mud and just relaxing, letting the tension seep out of his muscles and bones, would be nice.
But he looked down.
His feet were sinking into the mud. It was slow, but it didn't seem like it was going to end anytime soon. He would just continue sinking. Sinking. Sinking. Until 'he' stopped being a thing.
Ackster didn't know where he was, how he had gotten there, or how to get somewhere else. But if he didn't keep moving, he would drown, suffocate, buried in mud. He couldn't even begin thinking about anything else, or at all.
Yet, even without thinking, Ackster knew he had to move. So, that's what he did.
As the mud started seeping up in between his toes, Ackster raised his right foot before putting it down in front of him. His muddy footprint quickly faded. Then, with a sigh, he raised his left foot. He put it down in front of him.
Right foot. Left foot. One in front of the other.
He walked mindlessly, only occasionally noticing that there was a familiar scent nearby. But it disappeared too quickly for it to stir more than one thought, which vanished just as fast as the smell itself.
Ackster's legs kept moving, and he had no idea how much time passed.
But it wasn't like in the dark depths of the ant nest. Down there, Ackster had been aware of time passing. But now, he had no idea or recognition of anything happening. His mind was completely blank.
Gradually, however, he could feel his legs grow tired from constantly fighting against the mud, trying to suck them down under. And the desire to rest grew within Ackster's heart again. The only thing that kept it from spiraling out of control and making him throw himself to the ground was the keen, instinctual awareness that there wouldn't be any going back from that.
He could barely stop for what had to be only a few minutes to let his legs rest before they started sinking so deep that it was too much of a struggle pulling them out for the break to have been worth it.
His only option was to continue walking or die a slow, agonizing death. But the more he walked, the more tired he got, and the emptier of a husk he felt, the more Ackster started thinking that maybe dying wouldn't be so bad.
Compared to this eternal wandering in muddy marshes, a death of suffocation would be short. It would be more painful. But it would be that much shorter. A rational mind could have easily deduced that short-term but intense suffering would be easier to endure than infinitely escalating exhaustion and mental torment.
Fortunately, Ackster wasn't rational.
He didn't know why or how, but he kept walking while doing his best to ignore his suicidal impulses. The occasional sense of familiarity that brushed against him also helped stave off his desire for rest.
Even if he wanted to, even if he craved a break, Ackster didn't indulge. He didn't really think about it either. His mind was still blank.
Yet, he had somehow mustered up the resolve to continue walking.
So that's what he did.
Even when time didn't pass, Ackster's legs rose and fell like the ocean waves. Right foot up and down. Left foot up and down.
Even when his surroundings didn't change, the mist clung to the edge of his vision, the mud clung to his feet, and the muted sky clung to his hair Ackster walked.
Even when he didn't have an inkling of an idea whether he was walking straight in the right direction or in circles, Ackster's body was unstoppable like a coursing river. His steps were like tiny droplets of water, slowly and gradually wearing down even the toughest rock. And together, they formed a powerful stream.
But what Ackster was up against wasn't a rock. It wasn't ground or anything that ordinary running water could just break down and make a path through. It wasn't something mere persistence could handle.
Ackster was fighting a battle against the demons of his own mind. And it was impossible to determine who would emerge victorious, Ackster or Ackster's fears plaguing his mind with curses.
Persistence and a neverending walk would only do so much to free him of the colorless hellscape keeping him trapped.
Continuing without changing anything might even be worsening his condition since it wore on him mentally and on his soul.
If nothing happened or if Ackster didn't do anything, he might be trapped in an endless hell of walking of his own making for the rest of time or until he collapses and dies.
But Ackster wasn't in a position to do anything. His mind was broken, an empty husk of what had once been the source of his thoughts, will, and drive.
However, he also wasn't in a position to receive outside help. Any intrusions to his mind would only risk worsening his condition. And that was if anyone was capable of breaching the fog clouding his mind and reaching him.
It was something he had to do on his own but was impossible for him to do on his own.
It was paradoxical, infuriating, and hopelessly tragic.
Without even nursing the faintest hope, Ackster walked. He put one foot in front of the other, leaving behind a quickly fading series of footprints leading through a desolate land of naught but grey mud, grey fog, and grey skies.
He had long since stopped feeling anything. Even he was becoming grey.