The Underworld was not a cheerful place. It could be beautiful, and it could be thrilling, but cheerful it was not. Bright colors fought hard to survive, voices had a slight shadowy quality to them, redolent of mist. It was much larger than could be conceived by the mind, spanning from the entrance where the psychopomps entered to deliver their charges and to the deepest layers of Tartarus, the pit where the damned and deadly were confined. Between those two points there was enough to fill a world. One with a population that was constantly expanding, never diminishing. The Underworld, after all, was a final resting place, not a destination spot. ( Very few who went in ever went back out.  )