The uncertainty of lore

A man's fingers claw at the wooden barricade placed in front of him. A question arises of whether he is truly a man at all. His skin and hair and bones and blood and flesh can surely classify him as such, but deep under all of that, or perhaps on the surface, fundamental changes to humanity seek to categorize him as a different being altogether. Maybe a categorization is too scientific, too inhumane itself, too unnecessary. We must have a name for the flow of our tale, though. The object of focus, the crux of our situation lies in him, and it would suit us all better to define it. For all the humanity his body suggests, his mind lies dormant and different. Vision belongs to him, touch and taste are his own, even his generous skin bacteria continue to gnaw at him with indifference. Behind his kind grey eyes lays nothing at all. No memory, no purpose, no growth of character and no will. Yet he claws at his cage. Still yet he moves. Therefore he must have a name. Digship.

Digship doesn't know where he is. He hasn't the thought the figure it out. Reaching his arms out to his sides for a moment and disregarding the scratching he had been so feverishly doing since he opened his eyes, he felt more wood to his sides, not allowing his arms to fully straighten, or even halfway for that matter. Below him held the same fate. It seems he is in a wooden box somewhere. This did not matter to him. He was being fed a purpose from elsewhere, and it whispered to him: escape. His scratching resumed and did not cease for minutes. Hours. Days. Weeks. Beyond the scratching lay cold dirt and more scratching. As the wood recessed it allowed him to broaden his territory and replace the chamber with dirt as it poured down on him from above. The struggle proved uneventful as he methodically and robotically clawed his way further and further upward. Time never halted in all this work, and many days and nights flew by. To most people, a month would have passed. Digship only watched dirt fall and listen to the sounds of his own, pale hands move him about the small space he had come to find himself in. Eventually, after all this time continued as it always does, he reached up, as he always did, only this time reaching past dirt and into open air. There was a chill present that was lost on him, and his fingertips stretched out in all directions as he grasped for something solid. The caress of his touch landed upon dull green grass, though he could not see it, and he grabbed a handful and yanked it down to himself. The process continued for a bit longer, just a blink more, and now Digship had finally achieved new surroundings. Finally he was allowed a new view, and with it, a new purpose. He hoisted himself out above his waist and sat on the rim of a dirty hole, legs dangling, while this purpose took hold. The light of the moon shone down on him, illuminating a hideous white figure. He was wearing only a white t-shirt and blue slacks. His black work boots were still hidden by dirt, and his bloodless white skin was only darkened by the mud he had so adamantly removed himself from earlier. He stood up and took in his surroundings in the abnormally bright moonlight. Thick, short, stone pillars surrounded him. Most of them squared at the edges and forming neat little rectangles, but some larger and more ornate, and others smaller and rounded. Some didn't even rise from the ground but an inch. Beyond that there were few trees and grass and short black gates. He should have been able to see far, as he was nearly on top of a hill crest, but a dense fog of some sort clouded his vision past a certain point. What he saw though, was familiar. He knew the name for such a place, but it wasn't important. Only one thing mattered and it was filtering into his head slowly, like water through a sewer grate. WALK.

Legs marched on, towing Digship along with them. His head a swivel, his arms useless and limp, his legs autonomous and sturdy and driving. As if each of his body were working separately, he observed his surroundings hastily while the rest of him acted of their own accord. Desperately, he tried to recall information. He was seeing things he remembered, he knew he remembered them, but it was locked away. Controlling his head, he gazed at houses bathed in shadow and moon, while his uncontrolled legs gracefully danced over cobblestone streets. The brick buildings he was taking in were stacked neatly next to each other in rows, with only small discrepancies for the streets to pass by. Houses changed shape and size to signify homes from storefronts to businesses and bars, but none of this was apparent or known by Digship. Instead he recalled all the base elements. Stone, glass, wood, box, stair, dirt, metal, water, dark, light. Words shone in his mind and then disappeared, flashing terms he knew but not what they created in conjunction. It was an incredible struggle to even do this, but he experienced no fatigue or wear. It was as if he didn't even have his own thoughts. In fact, he had no mind at all. He was a superficial thing, being drug along with only a loose recollection of matter he had seen before. His eyes and his head spun wildly as he took in everything that passed by, and before he knew it he was stopped still in the middle of the street. Another purpose was imposing itself upon him. For a time, he was paralyzed, waiting for it to overtake him. Then it hit him harder than before and brought with it an agility he had never before possessed. SEEK.

His feet were already pushing him sideways when he turned to look where he was headed. Swiftly, he bounded up towards the nearest wall and hugged it tight, peering into the window near him. Inside, a soft candlelight illuminated the room from the center, and shadows flickered back and forth around it on all sides. Flat arms pressed against the cold black stone, holding him in place snugly while his eyes scanned the home for something. He did not know what, but he was certain his body did, somehow. The rest of him would know when he saw it. Then his fingers found support on the wall and pulled the rest of him upwards. His legs kicking up the side for extra boost and traction. His vessel had sprung him up to the second story window to do a bit more surveying, and it had done it with ease. Digship hung there precisely motionless. Working as a machine, not a fiber of his being moved except for his gaze, peering across the darkness of the room for an unknown quantity. Then he dropped down and bounded to the next window, across the street. It was a frantic act, all of it, but Digship felt nothing for it. Not unpleasantness nor glee nor excitement nor fear. He was but a traveler in his own body, watching it make choices and decisions without him. He continued to watch as his body continued this pattern for several houses. Many houses indeed. Climbing up walls and staring down families; being unseen, graceful, and agile. The passage of time, still foreign and mystical to Digship, pulsed through the night as it's heart. Thumping and beating as were his arms and legs. Bounding down rocky streets and up light posts and across bridges and all around. In circles and squares, and darting down passageways. Even sometimes venturing into a home, if the door was unlocked, or a window could be pushed in.

Digship stood on top of a slanted roof and gazed off into the distance, perusing the town. At this point his body stopped sharply and crouched down on the balls of it's feet, and with one hand down in front of him. It began to sniff the air and he could feel the air rushing into his nostrils, but was not allowed the sensation of smell. His body clambered over to the chimney, where a soft, dark smoke was rising out of it. It fully plunged it's head into the smoke, veiling his sight and enveloping the only sense he retained. It was almost pleasant, staring into that chimney, or it would have been if Digship had been feeling emotions in this state. The smoke would twist and swirl around his eyes, but he felt no irritation or burning. He could peer at the inside of the haze at will and come out unfazed. Suddenly his head jerked up. It had smelt something in this that it either liked or didn't like. Or that it simply wanted to find. It crawled over to the side of the house creepily and gripped the edge of the rooftop, knuckles down. It slowly let it's head drip over the edge and lowered his body with a mechanical precision. Once his chest and arms impeded his progress, he promptly stood his body straight up in a handstand and went down as far as his arm lengths would allow. He spun on his wrists and retained his grip at a new angle. He hung directly in front of a window, and his body kicked his feet out to the sill and let them sit there for a moment, then swung, using his momentum to precariously balance on the tiny windowsill, holding the top with his hands for grip. His face was pushed up against the glass, and he felt the rush of air that signified he was sniffing again. He quickly spread his legs out and let himself fall, catching himself on the bottom of the sill with his fingertips. He dropped again to the ground and ran around to the outside of the house and looked down into the basement through a small, rectangular window. There was a light coming from behind a shoddy wooden door. A glow came from around it's rim, and yellow pierced through patches where the wood of the door didn't quite touch. The door slowly crept open and a man stepped out into full view. He wore brown silken pants and a pale blue, sequined shirt. On his head rested a white circlet, and he clutched something tight in his right hand, closed up like an oyster. Digship's pupils widened and his nose sniffed as before. His whole body began to shiver and shake gently, then more viciously, then slowly again, only in the span of a second. He pulsed like this a few times until his eyes and body and some ethereal force synced up and he received his last transmission. It overtook him wholly and he was acting once again in a different manner than those two previous, but altogether the same. Robotic and determined, he took this new message clearly and began his new course. It burst through his head and his veins and his skin and hair all at once. KILL.

The window resisted the push of his hands for a moment before they crashed through it. Not with a blast or a blow, but by a constant, unmoving force. His arms got carved up by shards of glass but there was no pain to be felt and no damage dealt the body could not deal with. Until it was rendered immobile, it would trudge on through scar and gash and wound. The man reacted instantly and spun around to run back into the room from where he came. The door was in the process of slamming shut when Digships palm stopped it's momentum. He had already slid in the small window and made his way across the room. He hadn't sprinted or ran, but walked without impedance. His outstretched arms pushed up against the door and his feet dug into the stone basement floor as he drove his legs. Steadily and with an impressive display of strength, he threw the door back as he walked, driving the man backwards and stumbling. The room was now on full display. Digship did the only thing he could and took in his surroundings visually, noting certain things. A ritual display lay in front of him; pages of a journal, assorted pastes and plants, drawings in blood, traces of bone, rings of salt and dust. He wouldn't know what to make of it had he his full faculties, so now it was all mere scenic garbage. The man tried to back up and bumped into a small wooden table in the middle of the room, knocking things about. He tried to spin off of it and run further, but Digship ended the chase by seizing him by the throat and bending him backwards over the table. The man sputtered out words and promises and spit and cries but the body heard nothing. It's grip ever tightened and the life was purged from the man. He lay limp on top of his table for a moment before crumbling to the ground.

When the body was heard crashing to the floor, almost as if on cue, a resurgence of life found it's way to Digship. All his memories flooded back into his head, and he relived them all in an instant. His birth, growing up, schooling, adolescence, meeting his wife, love, hurt, pain, children. He fell down a flight of stairs and never walked again. Not until this night. Then a new set of memories implanted themselves in him retroactively. A woman above his grave. Whispering incantations into the dirt and sprinkling dark materials upon his tiny headstone. Clawing at his coffin. Breaking into the night. Searching the town for a traitor. Not to his cause, but to the woman's. Finding the man. Ending him. And now he stood in a mysterious basement room, covered in dirt and his own blood, and confounded by a sensory overload. He was living and breathing again after he had died. He began to cry without moving. Then the clocked ticked over a few more seconds and he fell to the ground in a heap. Death came for him once more, his allowance was up.

And we are all left only with questions. What makes a man? His name? His motives? His former or current actions? It would stand to reason that you need your own mind to be a man, and not the mind of another. A mind separates man from animal, and also man from himself. A man without his own mind is a liar. A man on someone else's mission is a fraud. A man brought back from his grave to be a tool is not a man at all.

A woman showed up at the house eventually and took Digship's body. She burned the bones and skin to a char and ground them into an ashen dust. This dust was collected and set adrift on a boat across the ocean. For it is said that a man who wanders the sea long enough will find paradise.