He spent a day and a night sprawled on the bone-strewn sands, insensate as the tide washed in and out.

There was thought and reason within him from the moment he awakened, but it was sentience absent of knowledge. No name, no history, no context. His trembling hand clutched at the sand, brought it up to his line of sight, and knew nothing of what he held. He gazed blankly at the sand for a time, focusing on single grains and fragments of detritus in childlike fascination.

The sand slowly slipped through his fingers to be scattered by the wind. When all of the sand had passed through his grip, he took up a larger object for examination. It was a large, singular fragment, pale and shadowed as he turned it this way and that. There was something more here. This thing was something other, something that was not him. There was still massive absence where his identity would be, but now floating in that void was the primitive concept of not-other.

The fragment had the whole of his attention. It was long and narrow but still had strength despite that. One end was ragged and sharp, the whole piece worn. This thing was incomplete, a broken shard of something larger. The fragment still in hand, the man rolled onto his side to gaze across a vista he was utterly unequipped to understand. In a way this made his search easier, as he focused on the only thing that seemed familiar. There was another long shaft nearby that seemed a twin to the one he held. Crawling over to it, he seized it in his other hand. It was not the same. This new length was unbroken, though just as well worn as the first. Long, and narrow, and white, the ends flaring to smooth knobs that suggested links to things yet unseen.

The idea of other was, in a moment, precariously joined by a new revelation. Bone. This was bone. The word bone sat in his mind, something that he could focus on. Time passed as he explored the concept of bone. Over hours, from meditation on bone came marrow, and blood, and flesh. The idea of flesh led to the concept of survival, though it was crippled by the incomplete concept of not-other that was his being.

Still, survival was a treasure trove of new information, a crown of passing time bejeweled by three ideas. Three hours without shelter. Three days without water. Three weeks without food. Engraved like an epitaph in that conceptual crown was the grim promise that failure to survive was to become as these bones: death. The man was not in any state to dwell on the matter, as more information was coming unbidden from survival. Explanations of time, tool-use, geology, botany and zoology flooded in as a cavalcade of facts. A day and a night passed before the man was finally informed and coherent enough to lift himself from the sand.

He found himself thirsty, hungry, and very lucky. He had fallen in the shade of one of a number of large blue structures, which had spared him exposure and possible sunburn through the long day. The concept of time caused him to consider this more fully. At some point he should have been scorched by the sun’s journey while he was helpless on the sand.

Further exploration was interrupted by an assault on his senses.

It was a stench so thick it struck his unprepared nostrils like a physical force. The stink was that of rancid oils and sun-baked rot, the filth of death on the wind. His guess as to the source was a fleshy, lumpen carcass he could see further down the beach. There was the suggestion of movement around it he found concerning. He focused on the movement, and the distance seemed to close on a singular entity. His vision locked on a writhing thing over a meter long, resembling a serpent’s tongue that was forked on both ends, laden with insectoid legs like a centipede. His focus grew ever tighter, drawing so close he could see it was covered with papillae like the tongue of a cat. He could see individual papillae as the thing slithered across the unnamed mass. Each movement tore up tiny bits of blood and flesh from the corpse that seemed to absorb into the tongue-beast. The horror of it was somewhat lessened by his confusion at suddenly knowing of serpents, centipedes and cats.

He shook his head to bring his attention back to his surroundings. Whatever the great mass was, it was well and truly dead. This came with a new definition attached to the idea of other: Imps. The corpse was crawling with scavenging Imps. The idea of Imps was a new root in the forest of knowledge that was growing in his mind. The act of delving these ideas seemed to risk immobility, so it seemed unwise to explore this knowledge too deeply with vicious things the size of his torso within line of sight.

The air became blessed by a warm breeze, keeping the miasma at bay as he began to stagger away from that mysterious reeking mass.

He was on a beach of pale sand, made paler still by endless fragments of bone and bordered by the gentle wash of blue waves and foam from the churning ocean. Over the water a sphere of flame blazed brightly enough that it hurt to look at. For a moment he thought it some bizarre sun until he realized it was in fact nearby. It was hard to judge the size of the orb from the shore. It was not floating on the tide but over it, unmoving while spitting bursts of steam when the occasional wave would splash water into it.

In the opposite direction, the view inland saw the beach gave way to green grasses and distant trees.

His immediate area of shoreline was graced by a collection of large blue slabs, crystaline and dazzling in the sunlight. They were laid out in what seemed to be some regular formation.

Finally, all around the beach were strange spurs of white, some in rows of great curves that loomed with impressive height.

He moved toward one of the white protrusions to verify what he already suspected. These were racks of massive rib bones, bleached and broken in varying degrees. They were not the bones of any being like himself. Whatever this dead thing had been, the ribs were markedly taller than he was. They looked old and worn, and he gave one a light push to gauge its strength.

With the touch a new concept linked with the unexplored idea of Imps. These were the rib bones of a Shambler. There was a great deal of information in his grasp now, whole paths of knowledge branched out like veins and capillaries. Why did he have this information in his head? What was a Shambler, beyond the obvious explanation that it was any large chaotic creature made unique by the array of random features that made up its existence? Why was that suddenly obvious? What did it mean that the bone had a durability of eleven? How did one put a numerical value on durability?

Branching off of the facts about Shamblers, there was a plethora of information about other creatures of Chaos. Imps, Shamblers, Daemons and Maddish, all manner of creatures which had no commonalities beyond being misshapen grab-bags of various limbs. Well, perhaps not the humanoid Maddish. The images in his mind showed them to be much more regular than the other things of Chaos. Some of those images were oddly compelling, in truth.

There were more digressions from the initial topics. From the idea of Chaos, there was a somewhat less cumbersome array regarding Order: The mindless Slimes, the three species of reptilian Ornian, and the bizarre Dragons.

The details about chaotic Daemons and orderly Dragons were nightmare fuel. His thoughts revealed Dragons as reptilian nightmares with savage powers on an enormous scale, while Daemons were living globes of flesh that could orbit the world like small moons, raining down all matter of mayhem.

He did not know how long he had been standing there, lost in a sea of trivia. Not too long, it seemed, for he looked high in the sky to see the sun had not visibly moved. Yet looking back, the mass that had drawn the scavenging Imps was much reduced. Some incongruity regarding the passage of time seemed to be in play. All the more reason to seek safety, for when those beasts ran out of flesh to feast on they might seek other sources.

The key was to keep moving and not panic. Unsteadily marching away from the bleached bones, he gathered his thoughts. The experience that came from touching that Shamber rib was disturbing yet enlightening. The question was if it was repeatable. A self-inspection on the run seemed in order.

First and foremost, the backs of his hands had sigils on them, golden in the light. He ran his fingers over the back of his left hand. Nothing wiped away, and there was no irregularity in texture. It seemed this symbol was part of his skin: a circle with two lines within, crossing each other to form equal quadrants. The quadrants near his fingers and his wrist were further bisected by another line each. He knew this was the Brand, that it was important enough to bear capitalizing. This knowledge was unique in what he had gained thus far in that it came without further detail.

He further observed he was adorned with some soft white material, open in the front, with a length of similar material drawn through loops around his waist. As he walked he reached to intentionally take it in hand. Clearly, this was an Innocent Robe, white, full-body with extra pockets inside and out, featuring a sheath for his knife, and a securable pouch for his box. The robe had a duration of one hundred and sixty eight hours. Why this was suddenly clear was… unclear. He simply understood the item.

He marched onwards inland, reaching the first sparse grasses as he assessed this information. How did a robe have a duration? Why didn’t it have durability like those bones did? More importantly, he had a knife? Yes! On the left side of the robe he was delighted to discover a fabric pocket that secured a blade. He drew it out, knowing at first touch it was an Innocent Blade: as long as his forearm, single edged, heavy at the tip, with a metal handle that fit comfortably in his grip. The pommel was cylindrical, the flat circles facing outward and bearing that same Brand he had on the backs of his hands. The whole thing was as if made of one solid piece of metal. That same duration of one hundred and sixty eight hours was attached to the blade, a repeat of the bizarre anomaly with the robe.

Now, there was mention of a box in some pouch? On the right side of the robe he found a large pocket with fabric bindings, those bindings flapping loosely in the breeze. No box. A dire sense of foreboding took him as he looked back toward the blue crystal slabs.

Nothing for it. The definition of the robe referred to “his box”. He had no idea what, if anything, might be in that box, but thus far his meager possessions could only be described as chronologically dubious. Thoughts of survival floated up in his consciousness like a pod of breaching whales.

Three weeks without food. Three days without water. Three hours without shelter.

Outside those limits his life was in danger, and even within them there was the risk of becoming too weak to do anything to save himself. Worse, he was not sure how much time had already passed, only knowing he was pained with both hunger and thirst. What if that box contained a fire kit, or clean water, or any number of possible lifesavers?

With any luck, the risk in going back to search for the box would be minimal. Steeling himself against returning to the stench, he turned with intent and swiftness. In the meantime, the assessment continued as he systematically laid hands on his meagre belongings.

Momentary consideration of his foot coverings revealed them to be Innocent Sandals, white. Each was a footprint-shaped block of unknown material held on with simple strap that ran between two of his toes, then split to cover the top of his feet. It seemed they joined the knife and robe in the one hundred and sixty eight hour club. Consideration elsewhere revealed his modesty was defended as well. One of the many branches of the survival data was that of clothing, and thus he understood that in the struggle between boxers and briefs he held the neutral ground of Innocent Boxer-Briefs in white, but exceptionally without mention of duration. Yes, boxer-briefs: a profound insight into his character, and one he treasured as it was the only clue he currently had as to his identity.

His memory started with sitting up in the sand beside those blue crystals. His head now was laden with ideas and definitions coming to him fully formed, completely coherent, and without an iota of background. It was a solid foundation but ultimately flawed because of the lack of actual context. None of the ideas that had thus come to him had any clues to his own identity as yet, though the concepts of flesh and survival seemed promising leads in that regard. However, each idea seemed to put him in a daze, as he realized he had come to a halt while examining his clothes. He hurried on while trying to keep his attention undirected so as to avoid being pulled into any new quagmires of thought.

The unthinking dash back to the crystals went quickly enough. He could see they were laid out in an orderly pattern whose nature he could not parse from his ground-level view. In the middle of the cluster was one that was open, and he knew it was a Branded Chysalis. Marvelous. More mysterious information, this time about the crystal, though much like the Brands on his hands it came with no further detail. He could see the so-called Chrysalis was not a solid block, but rather a long basin with a lid that had fallen away onto the sand. On that lid was a brown box, laid out as if casually discarded.

A quick scan of the area showed the stinking mass was now but a framework of bones jutting up out of splattered gore, still the centre of Imp attention. Feeling somewhat secure with their appetites occupied, he swept the box up. One Innocent Box, carved within and without. The box had a sliding lid that was already slightly ajar. The box and lid alike were of a rich, deep brown wood with red tones, quite smooth, about fifteen centimeters square and five centimeters deep, with ninety-eight durability.

The new concept of measured distance left him dizzy. A centimeter was a unit of length, one hundred of which made a meter. Why did he know this? Why could he hold his fingers up just so and know that the length between was a centimeter? For that matter, why did he know what a meter was?

He returned his focus to the box before he could get too lost in the thought. The box was already open, but even so he couldn’t help pause with a certain sense of trepidation. Survival brought him back to the box in the hope it held some aid, but it was also possible the box held some danger. Caution was the way forward. A tentative shake of the box resulted in silence from within. The lack of rattle did not answer any questions on its own, though. Pointing the opening away from his face, he gingerly pushed the lid completely off and flinched as it landed on the sand. No reaction from within. Looking within revealed no contents at all. An empty box. Less than what he might have hoped for, but not without use.

Yet there was reason to believe there was more to this box than just the contents. The wave of information regarding this box said it was ‘carved’. Where were the carvings?

Reaching down to regain the lid, a carving was revealed on its underside. On opposite ends were two patches of color. One patch was a circle with irregular points radiating out, silver with the carved lines in black. The other patch was a broad sweep of many colors. Both bore rows of mysterious marks. In the space between the two patches was a meandering line that ran from one colored patch to the other. The line had a number of smaller lines that peeled off, all pointed roughly in the direction of the multicolored sweep, until it finally split into a handful of lines that terminated in a final wavering curve that ran roughly perpendicular to the rest.

The alien thought that followed his focus on this image was still infuriating despite being expected: this was a simplified regional map. Along with this came a cavalcade of related trivia about topography, linked to the idea of distance. Compass roses, map legends, and most staggeringly of all the written word, all of it practically useless due to the lack of detail on the carving. Perhaps the spiked circle was supposed to be a compass rose? If so, it was a rose that had been used as a hammer at some point. The radiating points on that circle made no sense whatsoever, which did nothing to ease his worsening mood. Those unidentifiable marks were now resolved as words: in the multicolored area, ‘Here there be Daemons’, while the silver circle sported ‘Here there be Dragons’.

Dragons and Daemons. Several deep breaths followed. A thought occurred to him, one that was strangely comforting as it felt natural rather than some intrusion. If he let everything grind to a halt every time he was confronted with the possibility of body-devouring and mind-shattering horrors, he thought, he’d never get anything done. Nothing for it but to soldier on.

After further inspection of the inside of the box in hope of finding some hidden prize, he slid the lid back on. Easier to carry the thing as a solid piece, he thought. However, before stowing the box in the purpose-built pocket on his robe, he had one more question to resolve. He’d found a carving within, but there was also mention of a carving without. Several minutes passed inspected the surface. It wasn’t until his fingers brushed something on the bottom that the mystery was solved. He had to bring the box so close that it was nearly touching his nose to see the carving, being remarkably fine lines not readily noticeable against the dark grain of the wood. Nine letters. ‘F O R S Y M E O N’.

For Symeon?

If this box was a gift he bore for someone else, the party was already well over. Whatever was within was gone. The information he had gained thus far named this as his box. He had no reason to believe the information was misleading. While the contents were lost or consumed, the conclusion from the box itself was that his name was Symeon.

For the first time since awakening on this ruinous shore, he had a fundamental concept complete in his mind. Not-other was finally replaced with self, with Symeon, and the entire solar system of knowledge in his mind rotated and twisted to let this idea become the blazing sun at the centre. With this came an interruption, in the form of a glowing blue panel that had materialized in his field of vision.

What was presented to him was an azure square. At the top left, the corner was adorned with an orb, containing within a red qestion mark. Beside that orb was a single word: Symeon. The border was made of a collection of lines weaving around each other, beginning and terminating with the orb. Within was an array of more red question marks, resting above eight bevelled squares. The squares gave the impression of absence, and drew his attention in a way that felt… wrong. Wrong was the wrong word, though. Unnatural seemed more apt, though he lacked the context to judge what was normal. He forced his attention away from those eight holes, and then struggled to remove the blue panel from his line of sight. Physical contact seemed impossible, as it remained at distance regardless of his movements. Frustration built, and was dispersed by a feeling of resonance. The panel was part of him, as much as an arm or a leg, and now he could feel it. A thought that took less effort than blinking silently collapsed the manifestation into nothingness.

The revealed view was again that of the ruined thing on the beach. He was reasonably sure it was cousin to the Shambler bones he had interacted with. What little was left of the corpse was now stripped bones and smears on the sand. The crowd of Imps seemed to have largely dispersed, and it seemed he was in luck once more. The participants in that seething mob had apparently moved on without seeking to trouble him.

The wind shifted then, and left him gagging. Despite being stripped nearly bare, the smell from the cadaver was still so strong to nearly be a physical blow. It was as if some unclean thing had crawled into a hole, died in agony, came back to life out of sheer bloody-mindedness, vomited profusely, and then died again in the stew of its own filth. As far as Symeon was concerned, the only part of that description that was inaccurate was that the thing did not have the decency to actually crawl into a hole before dying. Symeon began to flee inland in an attempt to escape the reek, his footsteps crunching loudly as the rocks and detritus became less granulated. It was the clatter of his passage that caused him to almost miss something else: a singular click, like two stones coming together, from the direction of the carcass.

Symeon looked back at the crystals, and beyond them the Shambler corpse. Silence. More silence. And then another click. Symeon quickly narrowed in on the sound. He was confident it came from the direction of the corpse. Still, nothing else of note in sight. Carcass, crystals, sand, bones.

"Hello?” The word came out without thought, but it was trailed by another blast of information. The knowledge of the written word was now joined by language and communication both subtle and overt. The wave of information dominated his attention again. Being overwhelmed previously seemed to have toughened his resolve, and he kept his gaze fixed toward the Shambler corpse. This served him well, for when he had spoken something leapt up from the beach, lunging a great length toward him before landing with that same click, louder this time. Symeon went very still watching it. It was still some distance away. While unmoving on the sand it resembled a large, brown rock, but Symeon was sure it moved. In fact, he was sure it had outpaced him with that leap. He backpedaled away in silence, for a few moments hopeful he might manage to slip away. Then the thing leapt again, closing a terrifying length of the distance and landing with that singular click.