Because mountains. In some cave – some system of caves? He didn't see any of that, there was no thing to point toward. No thing on the horizon towards which the purpose of this place obviously was. Nothing like that at all. Actually, in the fundamental nature of what apparently had reason to exist. It was just Setty. Taking him forward.

But she knew. She knew. He reminded himself.

And that was why she was still apparently taking him toward that – that thing there, that new thing there, on the horizon.

And – a Sorcerer actually, and in fact – why? – Why had he already accepted this; without even running through his interior, which he saw was apparently a large part of who he was – not even knowing. And why did he apparently ruminate endlessly on everything, including, everything, insignificant – but he hadn't spent a second thinking about what was obviously the purpose of his life now. That was. To find. Save? Him.

The Golden Bow. And if Setty was taking him toward, what apparently was a City Prison – for the lost. This obviously was this place and that category anyway obviously – lost – was one to which he appertained.

He was lost but so was he. And so it was toward him – toward that place that he apparently was going. Implicit perhaps even in the universe itself – that this was the purpose – he could say – but anyway this and his.

Something very weird was happening.

In terms even of his consciousness in this planet. Because he didn't think what was happening right now was normal.

He understood this place. – Was this – only – what it was to be a Sorcerer? And these of course were vague too-inside-his-own-head thoughts, but he couldn't – the same time deny – what was obviously.... the truth. He understood this place – even in the fundaments, maybe perhaps, even in, the nature of – it was this – its being.

And if this was an inkling about how to be a sorcerer he could use that right now because his – currently his – horse and only friend, Setty, was taking him up a hill closer, ever so very much closer, toward a city, that was evidently – it was extremely, pointy, angled, gloomy, tenebrous, dark, and scary. But obviously also a prison and –

Shit-fuck, he realised, looking up at it, moving towards it – he's here in this – a term that was pretty specific – this place was a dungeon. Filled with –

He could see them, on the ramparts – it was evident – clearly noting him.

This black fortress of a city that was a prison, that was a dungeon and a fortress, was apparently also a prison and a dungeon. It was that whole list but mainly:

Dungeon.

Which meant – this apparently meant – and this was the unfortunate realisation he was coming to – it was filled with dribbling demons who wanted to kill him.

“Setty, eh.”

And Setty was taking him right toward it.

“Setty, eh, maybe don't take me straight immediately toward that black fortress city prison thing, with clearly demons on the ramparts that are currently right now seeing us, it's also a dungeon. If I were you, Setty, old girl, I'd maybe pause up a bit and we can discuss this or hide; or even, if there's a readily apparent alternative - do that instead. If we could just do that instead, starting with you taking us away from the evil city prison/dungeon, instead of in fact going toward it – that would be –”

An arrow flew past his head. Hit a bush. It was a bush. There. That thing. He thought it was a bush. He looked back at a bush. He longed now for the simple days of his habitation in a bush.

“Setty?”

Arrow – this time even closer to his head on the top of his neck, where he kept both. Joined.

This black fortress of a city that was a prison, that was a dungeon that was a fortress, was apparently a prison and a dungeon. It was a lot of things but mainly a dungeon. Anyway this place he was having a mild – one of those – breathing difficult – attacks, on the way toward - it was entirely black, like – bitumen. It was bitumen. He realised as another arrow flew – his ear felt the pretty wind on it – like an atmosphere containing perhaps an immanent deity – past his head.

The Sorcerer took the reins and tried to – he was literally just sitting there before this, on a horse, doing nothing, not participating, not being an active participant in anything, let alone his own fate, but now he realised there were such things as reigns, and maybe – Setty was a smart animal/person, if animals were persons, he thought not, but he certainly considered her one – but maybe he could just steer her actually, or at least indicate, with these reigns now in his hand, he thought – they were for this?

What kind of sorcerer was he in this world if he had no inkling – and it wasn't only because he had no memory – this was like a blank not even half-familiar – non-existent – sensation of – also leaving aside the supposed doctrine of what cerebral records could reside in one's buttocks but –

He didn't think he'd even ever been on, one of these. But he tried anyway. – He had to because the next arrow would hurt his face, perhaps off.

He tried, anyway, at first, steering Setty right.

The Bitumen City/Prison [of the Lost] was on a hill – not terribly ambitious – no inchoate desires to be anything other – it was happy enough with its current social status in terms of its being a hill holding up a massive – it was the whole thing – Bitumen City/Prison. Really fucking scary and dark, he thought to himself, and populated with demons, he thought to himself: sensible thoughts pertaining to observation mixed with many – coping mechanism – superfluous ones.

On the right there was a path, down, behind – it almost looked under, the Bitumen City/Prison [of the Lost] – he thought. He flapped the reins in that direction – tugging seemed a tad unwarranted, though he seemed to recall – he'd just had them between his hands the Golden Boy – why had he never been interested for even a second in observing what other people were doing? He'd been in his head the whole fucking time when he should have been interrogating the Golden lad, same time observing him, both with the goal of learning how to sit on with purpose – ride a... horse.

Instead of that he'd –

Dreams and fruitless conceptions.

Same thing he always – that he always...

The Sorcerer steered Setty, pointing, flapping reins, and also verbally annunciating, the directions he'd prefer she take them towards, all of which conspired in her miraculously cooperating, “Down here/there, Setty, lass, down here. I'm steering you, my dear friend and lady horse. No offence about it, but you were taking us to our certain death over there, which in both out mutual interests, I thought best avoided. Down here, lass, down here.”

Faster now, she was in fact running, not a gallop, the other one, at a good pace – canter! She was cantering at a good steady pace now beneath, it seemed far beneath the Bitumen City/Prison [of the Lost]. If there was something between canter and gallop he'd say that one.

The path they were on took them in a sweeping/steep angle right behind the Bitumen City/Prison [of the Lost] and down. But it was one way – in fact, this path – like the whole world, this whole world, he remembered – that – he was obviously trapped inside. Only ever one way to go; which meant – which meant presumably the man he sought was in there...? Or at least – it was next/it was next/it was next.

Further and further beneath they went, the Bitumen City/Prison [of the Lost] towering ever steeper over them. The path had swept them in fact so fast beneath and behind the Bitumen City/Prison [of the Lost] – to the extent that – he didn't know what was happening, but maybe this, and he couldn't see anyway – the arrows had stopped.

If they were that. Maybe they were femurs. He realised in fact now his subconscious was telling him that they were femurs. Had all along been femurs. They had shot past him fast. Flying hard things – projectiles. Maybe they were bones. In fact. This was exactly what they were. He hadn't noticed the matted – he had noticed obviously this was how he could recall it – there had been a matted wad of bloody hair – pubes, quite obviously, attached to one of the arrow bones and anyway, he obviously hadn't wanted to focus on that at the time fleeing, but the event in material reality had been unavoidably that.

Fuckinnnn.

So they kept going down. Ever steeper beneath the Bitumen City/Prison [of the Lost] that towered over them. After a part he realised that in the twilight, that was quickly departing – he'd been out for a day? – who knew – who knew anything as it pertained to any of this. The parts of empty reality above him, that did not pertain to the Bitumen City/Prison [of the Lost] – these chunks of mere empty nothing hanging there in the air the way that happened in life. Of there being a sky above your head, in those terms, in that specific manner he meant. These black layers of twilight, somewhere along the line, were replaced by identical, in terms of your not being able to see them – completely black, and light absorbing, the bitumen ramparts of the fortress, that, after a time, he realised – if he wasn't fully inside he was nearly fully inside. In fact he was inside. The thing. Now. This had been the transition. Into. This way. The Bitumen City/Prison [of the Lost].

The completely black, starless sky, after a part, he realised was not. That. At all. The roof above his head was not a black, empty, starless sky – a cosmos devoid of any matter whatever – just absence, he realised. The roof above his head was not that at all, after a part. There'd been a transition, and was in fact now... a roof above his head.

The roof of; the ceiling of, within: the Bitumen City/Prison [of the Lost].