Introduction
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GMs: :: Nannyhap :: RhiannontheDane ::
We all have our stories.
Some of us are proud of the way that we got here; the heinous acts and bitter malice that led to our downfall bothers us little, if at all. There are men and women here who have killed more people in their lifetime than many people ever meet. Rapists. Murderers. Beings—for they cannot be called human any longer, if indeed they ever were—of such great ambition that they arrived here, not after a tragic death, but willingly in life, in order to climb the ranks. In order to establish their power.
Some of us are remorseful. Our wrongdoings hang about our shoulders, a heavier burden even than the torments this place provides. The sad ones, they don't last very long around here. More often than not, they're gobbled up by something meaner than themselves, something that has no qualms ripping out a beating heart and devouring it, if it means another step towards the incomprehensible powers of Hell. They're in for a surprise at the end of the ride.
Still others are frantic. Dazed. They must have expected better, although goodness knows why they would have. Each has their sob story. "I didn't know!" they cry, or a personal favorite of mine, "I never meant to hurt anyone!" Frauds to the end and then some, I suppose.
And then there are those of us that are born here. The rest, well, they can climb out, or at least that's what I've heard—but for us, there's no escape.
BASIC INFORMATION
Welcome to Hell!
Kick your shoes off and stay a while.
Kick your shoes off and stay a while.
Whatever you've done to get here, it doesn't matter now; there's little else for you to do but stick around and adjust to life on the fast and fiery track that Hell puts you on from the moment you arrive. Whether you're born here or you've wound up here after some heinous act (the worse, the better!), making yourself useful and making yourself scarce will both be useful skills in climbing the ladder. Don't hold any illusions about breaking out; even if you managed to climb out of here, by some miracle, where would you, a powerless ghost, have to go? Best if you just stand in line and fill out the required forms. Perhaps, if you're good enough at what we ask you to do, we'll even help you to enjoy your stay.
Hell is managed by an unseen group of demons known as the Lords of Hell. Despite their unimaginative title, this governing body of unknown number is quite the cruel and unusual group, presiding in masks over nearly every hearing that goes on in Hell's courts and doling out not the harshest, or the most painful, but the most creative and humiliating punishments Hell is capable of concocting. Demons and damned souls alike are advised to stay out of trouble if they don't want to deal with these nasty buggers, and trust me...you don't.
The only entity more terrifying than the Lords of Hell themselves is a demon known as The Black Lady, who arrived many years ago as a damned soul already possessed of considerable power. While she's not officially a ruling body in Hell, she is patron to hundreds, perhaps thousands of the most notable demons in its ranks, and many would rather lead a revolt against the Lords themselves than disobey her.
Climbing ranks and keeping your nose clean is all well and good, but in this incarnation, documentation is important. Characters can be penalized for the sake of plot for not filing the proper paperwork before forming/terminating partnerships, not that we're going to make the players fill any of that out. Probably.
There are a great many ways to get on here in Hell, depending on your personal preferences. If you're a damned soul, it may be easiest to simply allow yourself to be devoured by the slobbering masses of larval demons just dying to get their teeth on your despicable little soul, but it's not required of you. If you're a demon, you should probably do your best to do your mama and papa demons proud—although we're simply advocating this course of action, not expecting you to follow. After all, we're just words on a page, we aren't your dad.
A few suggested goals are as follows. (Feel free to suggest more!)
Damned souls are capable of becoming demons by consuming the hearts of five other damned souls.
Unlike native demons, damned souls who become demons do not initially possess a great control of infernal magics. However, they are also impervious to faith-based methods of binding, banishing, or otherwise causing harm.
Infernal magic is a complicated skill which takes a great deal of time and natural acuity to master. Not bound by the laws of physics, necessarily, it's accessed by tapping into the latent power that all of the incoming and outgoing souls pump into Hell itself. The over use/abuse of Infernal magic can drive up the amount of souls/mayhem a demon is responsible for, as the demon is using up public resources for his own personal gain. Some common Infernal magics include, but are not limited to, the following:
This list is by no means the be all and the end all of Infernal magic (which is good, because it's really short). It'll expand as time goes on, hopefully providing more ideas. Basically, there's no limit to Infernal magic except what Hell itself, as a ruling entity, won't allow you to do.
Climbing ranks proves to be a difficult task for most young demons after they've left the Sandlot, so we've come up with a handy guide for doing so, guaranteed to confuse all but the brightest young demons into remaining imps forever. The most important thing to know about climbing the ranks is that doing so requires killing your fellow demons, a handy little task that does a big part in keeping Hell's ever-increasing numbers a great deal smaller than they could be.
Once demons are employed by Hell, they enter into a closed power circuit, wherein all unclaimed power is redistributed accordingly. Killing a demon one rank above you will distribute his power only to you. Killing a demon several ranks above you will give you the better majority if his power, but will also distribute it among those demons who rank in between the two of you, and everyone will move up one rank. Killing a demon below you yields you no rewards at all, save perhaps keeping your skin safe another day.
A demon can also climb ranks by fulfilling his duties to Hell and causing a great deal of mayhem in the Overworld, specifically by securing souls that will later be fed to larval demons in the Sandlot. While a demon is expected to do this anyway, a demon who performs particularly splendidly in this task might find himself jumping up a few ranks more than he might have expected. The demon who invented evangelical television, for example, found himself a good three ranks higher than he'd been before that was implemented, and the one who suggested to a penny-pinching human that simply implementing weaker wires in the headphones he produced was eventually given a solid pat on the back by the Lords of Hell themselves for the murders that followed.
Likewise, demons found doing primarily good deeds can be summoned to inquiries and face impressive punishments. This is not advised.
There's running water, which appears to be mostly clean. It's not a necessity for demonic life, but it seems to keep the meatsacks happy, and we don't want a revolt on our hands.
*Just our little joke.
The Fallen all inhabit the city of Nod, in various and sundry positions on the ladder. Even Lucifer himself has taken up residence there, although he isn't nearly so high on the food chain as he might like to be. Nod is also home to shadowy creatures called Nightmares that are not actually under Hell's employ, at least not exclusively. They lurk in dark places, waiting for shadow demons to wander into their midst to be devoured. Ironically, many Nightmares are otherwise mild-natured, and several of them keep small gardens in the front of their dark, inhospitable caves.
Thinking about joining the roleplay, but not sure if you can get into the swing of things? Never fear—there will always be someone on-hand (or foot, or talon, or horn, depending on what mood we're all in) to help you get into the swing of things once you've created your character. Since this is a very free-flowing, character-driven game, we can always use new characters, be they long-term or temporary. I'll try to keep this section updated with important information, such as available areas of Hell/the Overworld, so that new players will have something to go off of, and I'll always date my updates. If you wander in here and it hasn't been updated in a while, just shoot me a PM and I'll get it all sorted out. Any information you feel needs to be added to this section can be PMed to Nannyhap for consideration.
Some of these things, such as the current subplot, will have more explanation as the roleplay moves on. Just keep your eyes peeled.
Available Characters: Demons, Damned Souls
Open Areas: The Sandlot
Power Level: Extremely Low/ Low (well under 9000, kids.)
Current Subplot/Status: Introductions
Important note: All mythologies are to be considered valid in this roleplay, and you may draw from any as long as you don't undermine someone else's in the OOC threads.
Hell is managed by an unseen group of demons known as the Lords of Hell. Despite their unimaginative title, this governing body of unknown number is quite the cruel and unusual group, presiding in masks over nearly every hearing that goes on in Hell's courts and doling out not the harshest, or the most painful, but the most creative and humiliating punishments Hell is capable of concocting. Demons and damned souls alike are advised to stay out of trouble if they don't want to deal with these nasty buggers, and trust me...you don't.
The only entity more terrifying than the Lords of Hell themselves is a demon known as The Black Lady, who arrived many years ago as a damned soul already possessed of considerable power. While she's not officially a ruling body in Hell, she is patron to hundreds, perhaps thousands of the most notable demons in its ranks, and many would rather lead a revolt against the Lords themselves than disobey her.
Climbing ranks and keeping your nose clean is all well and good, but in this incarnation, documentation is important. Characters can be penalized for the sake of plot for not filing the proper paperwork before forming/terminating partnerships, not that we're going to make the players fill any of that out. Probably.
Your Mission(s)...
...should you choose to accept it/them....
...should you choose to accept it/them....
There are a great many ways to get on here in Hell, depending on your personal preferences. If you're a damned soul, it may be easiest to simply allow yourself to be devoured by the slobbering masses of larval demons just dying to get their teeth on your despicable little soul, but it's not required of you. If you're a demon, you should probably do your best to do your mama and papa demons proud—although we're simply advocating this course of action, not expecting you to follow. After all, we're just words on a page, we aren't your dad.
A few suggested goals are as follows. (Feel free to suggest more!)
- One possibility for all characters, demons and damned souls alike, is to try to climb the ranks of Hell (more information on this below). Since this grants the most benefits and the majority of individuals who end up in Hell are fundamentally selfish, this is the most popular option to date. Being a demon (and therefore employed with Hell) grants individuals the ability to use and learn Infernal magic, absorb the power of their fellow demons, and speak Infernal, which is useful when you really need someone to tell you the truth.
- Damned souls may also choose to climb out of Hell of their own accord and try to redeem themselves in the eyes of whatever higher power they believe in. However, in order to reach a location in which these entities might hear them, they have to devour the hearts of five other damned souls, which means few deities are willing to work with them, and they are often smote. Tough break, guys.
- All demons and damned souls have to work their way up through the rigors of the Sandlot in order to escape, but not all of them have to file their employment with Hell (although it is advised—they get cranky if you don't). Some characters may choose to live a life completely independent of Heaven or Hell, effectively "going renegade." While this doesn't grant them any of the extra powers demons are allotted, it does mean that Hell can't observe their every action, and unless they encounter a demon who is familiar with them, they'll likely live several natural lives unnoticed in the Overworld. Generally these people get bored and wander back, unless their mighty principles won't allow it.
The Inhabitants of Hell
The Flora and the Fauna. Mostly the Fauna.
The Flora and the Fauna. Mostly the Fauna.
Damned souls are capable of becoming demons by consuming the hearts of five other damned souls.
Unlike native demons, damned souls who become demons do not initially possess a great control of infernal magics. However, they are also impervious to faith-based methods of binding, banishing, or otherwise causing harm.
Infernal Magic
What you need to know to stay safe while practicing the Dark Arts.
What you need to know to stay safe while practicing the Dark Arts.
Infernal magic is a complicated skill which takes a great deal of time and natural acuity to master. Not bound by the laws of physics, necessarily, it's accessed by tapping into the latent power that all of the incoming and outgoing souls pump into Hell itself. The over use/abuse of Infernal magic can drive up the amount of souls/mayhem a demon is responsible for, as the demon is using up public resources for his own personal gain. Some common Infernal magics include, but are not limited to, the following:
- Free teleportation between Hell and the Overworld. — A demon who has completed his trials in the Sandlot may at any point leave the physical Overworld to return to Hell without risk of discorporation*, assuming he does so intentionally. He may also transport from Hell to anywhere/anytime in the Overworld, assuming that time or place is not under specific watch by the Lords of Hell (for example, the Salem Witch Trials are currently under lock and key, because more demons keep showing up and threatening to expose the inner workings of Hell).
- Small "miracles." — Certain convenient magics, such as breathing life back into rodents and birds (among other small animals) or putting an end to an unfortunate hail storm are generally within the realm of basic Infernal magic. Many demons use this "convenient" magic to summon themselves a cup of coffee, however.
- "File sharing." — Demons are capable of freely calling up information on any individual on whom Hell already has a claim.
This list is by no means the be all and the end all of Infernal magic (which is good, because it's really short). It'll expand as time goes on, hopefully providing more ideas. Basically, there's no limit to Infernal magic except what Hell itself, as a ruling entity, won't allow you to do.
Climbing the Ranks
Or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Flames.
Or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Flames.
Climbing ranks proves to be a difficult task for most young demons after they've left the Sandlot, so we've come up with a handy guide for doing so, guaranteed to confuse all but the brightest young demons into remaining imps forever. The most important thing to know about climbing the ranks is that doing so requires killing your fellow demons, a handy little task that does a big part in keeping Hell's ever-increasing numbers a great deal smaller than they could be.
Once demons are employed by Hell, they enter into a closed power circuit, wherein all unclaimed power is redistributed accordingly. Killing a demon one rank above you will distribute his power only to you. Killing a demon several ranks above you will give you the better majority if his power, but will also distribute it among those demons who rank in between the two of you, and everyone will move up one rank. Killing a demon below you yields you no rewards at all, save perhaps keeping your skin safe another day.
A demon can also climb ranks by fulfilling his duties to Hell and causing a great deal of mayhem in the Overworld, specifically by securing souls that will later be fed to larval demons in the Sandlot. While a demon is expected to do this anyway, a demon who performs particularly splendidly in this task might find himself jumping up a few ranks more than he might have expected. The demon who invented evangelical television, for example, found himself a good three ranks higher than he'd been before that was implemented, and the one who suggested to a penny-pinching human that simply implementing weaker wires in the headphones he produced was eventually given a solid pat on the back by the Lords of Hell themselves for the murders that followed.
Likewise, demons found doing primarily good deeds can be summoned to inquiries and face impressive punishments. This is not advised.
The Geography of Hell
Map coming soon.
Map coming soon.
There's running water, which appears to be mostly clean. It's not a necessity for demonic life, but it seems to keep the meatsacks happy, and we don't want a revolt on our hands.
*Just our little joke.
The Fallen all inhabit the city of Nod, in various and sundry positions on the ladder. Even Lucifer himself has taken up residence there, although he isn't nearly so high on the food chain as he might like to be. Nod is also home to shadowy creatures called Nightmares that are not actually under Hell's employ, at least not exclusively. They lurk in dark places, waiting for shadow demons to wander into their midst to be devoured. Ironically, many Nightmares are otherwise mild-natured, and several of them keep small gardens in the front of their dark, inhospitable caves.
YOU MUST BE NEW HERE
A guide to getting started.
A guide to getting started.
Thinking about joining the roleplay, but not sure if you can get into the swing of things? Never fear—there will always be someone on-hand (or foot, or talon, or horn, depending on what mood we're all in) to help you get into the swing of things once you've created your character. Since this is a very free-flowing, character-driven game, we can always use new characters, be they long-term or temporary. I'll try to keep this section updated with important information, such as available areas of Hell/the Overworld, so that new players will have something to go off of, and I'll always date my updates. If you wander in here and it hasn't been updated in a while, just shoot me a PM and I'll get it all sorted out. Any information you feel needs to be added to this section can be PMed to Nannyhap for consideration.
Some of these things, such as the current subplot, will have more explanation as the roleplay moves on. Just keep your eyes peeled.
Available Characters: Demons, Damned Souls
Open Areas: The Sandlot
Power Level: Extremely Low/ Low (well under 9000, kids.)
Current Subplot/Status: Introductions
Important note: All mythologies are to be considered valid in this roleplay, and you may draw from any as long as you don't undermine someone else's in the OOC threads.
Character Sheet
- Code: Select all
[size=120][b]Basics[/b][/size]
[b]Name:[/b]
[b]Aliases:[/b]
[b]Gender:[/b]
[b]Age/Date of Death):[/b] (Date of death is only applicable for damned souls.)
[b]Species:[/b] (Please specify if your character is a demon or a damned soul. If a demon, please specify any known subspecies.)
[b]Voice:[/b]
[b]Equipment:[/b]
[size=120][b]Appearance[/b][/size]
[b]Physical Description:[/b] (Text descriptions are better than images. Visuals are user's discretion, but no recognizable images, please.)
[b]Mannerisms:[/b]
[b]Wardrobe:[/b]
[b]Strengths:[/b] (This includes special abilities.)
[b]Weaknesses:[/b]
[b]Other:[/b] (Anything else you find important to the character's appearance should go here.)
[size=120][b]Personality*[/b][/size]
[b]Demeanor:[/b] (Give a description of how s/he acts towards others.)
[b]Attitudes:[/b] (Give a description of how s/he acts inside his or her own head.)
[b]Likes:[/b]
[b]Dislikes:[/b]
[b]Quirks:[/b]
[b]Flaws:[/b]
*You're welcome to give a description of the character's personalities before his/her death, if it's different from the personality s/he now displays.
[size=120][b]Life Before Hell[/b][/size]
(Not applicable to native demons.)
[size=120][b]How You Ended Up Here[/b][/size]
(Preferably in the character's own words. Optional for native demons.)
[size=120][b]General History[/b][/size]
Other Important/Somewhat Trivial Information
This list will probably grow with time.
This list will probably grow with time.
- Faith-based magic (such as religious practices of any sort) will only work on low-level demons who have barely left the Sandlot. Since everyone is in the Sandlot now, no one really cares—but keep that in mind in a few weeks if you're a new demon traveling to the Overworld or if you want to play a human who tries to beat demons over the head with crosses. Because generally this just makes them angry.
- You can't lie in Infernal. This seems counter-intuitive, but it's an intention-based language wherein what you mean to say falls out of your head whether you want it to or not. This is why most demons primarily speak a human language to one another.
- Baby demons eat damned souls to survive. They don't necessarily have to eat their hearts, but some enjoy the feeling.
- When a demon kills another demon, he climbs up a fraction of that demon's rank. Killing bigger demons yields larger rewards. Don't worry about the numbers, we're just going to eyeball them for now.
- Meatsacks (damned souls with Infernal powers) are technically demons too, once they've eaten five hearts!
- And, perhaps most importantly, this roleplay is still/pretty much always open. I'm going to go bump the RPers wanted thread. Anyone who brings in players gets a cookie.
- 16 posts here • Page 1 of 1
The Story So Far... Write a Post » as written by 6 authors
He'd always thought that his funeral would be the most depressing day of his life (using the term loosely), on the off-chance that they'd let him stick around to see it. It had certainly come close; watching his mother, young widow that she was, crowding around his coffin with friends and family, dabbing ineffectually at her eyes with a greying handkerchief, had not been on his list of things to do with his life. And in a way, he supposed it wasn't what he'd done with his life, since at the time he hadn't had much of a life to do anything with.
It was reasonable, he felt, to assume that the most depressing moment of his existence would have been watching them lower the heavy wooden coffin into the cold ground, and he was relieved to note that the overwhelming sorrow of the moment had at least assuaged his outrage at being buried in one of his father's old blue suits.
Ezra had never looked good in blue, he felt.
But he'd reasoned at the time that things could not possibly get worse than that. It was a fairly logical assumption, which explained a great deal of his surprise when, a short time later, he found himself on a dusty road beneath a red-grey sky, staring into the face of what looked like a deserted town. He could hear something in the distance, a sound like snarling or perhaps the tearing of flesh, and though he'd never been a good, God-fearing, church-going man, it didn't take Ezra long to recognize where he was.
He was in Hell.
He was in Hell, and even more depressingly, he was still wearing the hideous blue suit in which he had been buried.
It had been nearly a week since he'd landed himself in the Sandlot, and Ezra Morrow was not coping nearly as well as he'd assumed he might. Or at least, he assumed it had been a week; time here moved in strange, confusing ways, and his watch had frozen the moment he'd arrived. The sun, if there was such a thing beneath the thick red clouds, never seemed to set. It only sunk low, dimming the already unfortunate lighting in the place for a few hours before rising high in the sky again.
It was somewhat colder than he'd expected, and the cheap blue jacket did him no good against the biting wind that piled the dust high against the sides of the surrounding buildings. The buildings themselves provided little shelter against the chill. Many of them were just bare wooden frames, the remnants of roofs and walls clinging on for dear life. Once, he'd found one that had one solid wall facing the direction of the strongest of the winds, and had tried to make himself a small, comfortable fort out of found objects there.
The wind had promptly changed directions, and anyway, there had been rats.
He wondered what it was rats had to do to end up in Hell. Perhaps this was where they'd originated; it wouldn't have surprised him at all.
While he hadn't managed to find anywhere comfortable and safe to stay, and the Sandlot was quite free of any hygienic water source that might have washed the caked dust and mud out of his thick, dark hair, he counted himself among the lucky few that hadn't attracted the attention of any of the resident demons just yet. Perhaps unlike the others, his soul only had a light patina of evil, making it that much less interesting to those demons that would have otherwise devoured him.
Perhaps it was the smell.
Oh, the smell!
Once, as a very young man, his girlfriend had dragged him along to her church, as some sort of 'bonding' experience, and they had told him that Hell smelled of fire, and that the air tasted of brimstone. He'd laughed at them then, and, to be honest, he was laughing at them now; their description, meant to put the fear of God into the minds of naive little children, would have been pleasant compared to the stench that permeated the Sandlot. It smelled like rotting meat left out to bake in the sun, mixed in part with the scent of Ezra's own sweat, which was beginning to become overwhelming. He'd rinsed himself off as best he could in a shower located in one of the abandoned houses, but it had done no good. The water smelled of sulphur and sewage, and was nearly the same red-brown color as the sky, filled with blood and dirt and God-only-knew what else.
Now he was hearing rumors, whispers among the damned that there was a way to get out of this blasted place, if only one was willing to do the unspeakable. Hearts, he had heard, and the thought made his stomach churn now as it had at the time. Eating the hearts of other souls like himself before the native demons could sink their fangs into them. That was the way to escape.
Of course, the price was employment with Hell itself, but Ezra didn't see redemption lurking around any of the corners in his future, and he was sure he'd worked for less pleasant employers in his past. He fiddled with the switch blade in his pocket. It was crusted with mood, and perhaps a little blood, and Ezra didn't know what else. He'd plucked it out of the body of some poor man or demon (it was hard to tell once they were dead, except that generally, there was more left of demons) who'd crossed paths with the wrong individual and had learned their lesson for it.
He turned the knife over in his hands, and thought about what he had to do.
It was all he could do to keep from retching. Five hearts--perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. Perhaps he could work around his fears, now that he was dead.
Ezra stood against a cracking wall, covered from top to bottom with what was left of some very sad-looking vinyl siding, and thought. It was going to be a long Eternity.
It was reasonable, he felt, to assume that the most depressing moment of his existence would have been watching them lower the heavy wooden coffin into the cold ground, and he was relieved to note that the overwhelming sorrow of the moment had at least assuaged his outrage at being buried in one of his father's old blue suits.
Ezra had never looked good in blue, he felt.
But he'd reasoned at the time that things could not possibly get worse than that. It was a fairly logical assumption, which explained a great deal of his surprise when, a short time later, he found himself on a dusty road beneath a red-grey sky, staring into the face of what looked like a deserted town. He could hear something in the distance, a sound like snarling or perhaps the tearing of flesh, and though he'd never been a good, God-fearing, church-going man, it didn't take Ezra long to recognize where he was.
He was in Hell.
He was in Hell, and even more depressingly, he was still wearing the hideous blue suit in which he had been buried.
It had been nearly a week since he'd landed himself in the Sandlot, and Ezra Morrow was not coping nearly as well as he'd assumed he might. Or at least, he assumed it had been a week; time here moved in strange, confusing ways, and his watch had frozen the moment he'd arrived. The sun, if there was such a thing beneath the thick red clouds, never seemed to set. It only sunk low, dimming the already unfortunate lighting in the place for a few hours before rising high in the sky again.
It was somewhat colder than he'd expected, and the cheap blue jacket did him no good against the biting wind that piled the dust high against the sides of the surrounding buildings. The buildings themselves provided little shelter against the chill. Many of them were just bare wooden frames, the remnants of roofs and walls clinging on for dear life. Once, he'd found one that had one solid wall facing the direction of the strongest of the winds, and had tried to make himself a small, comfortable fort out of found objects there.
The wind had promptly changed directions, and anyway, there had been rats.
He wondered what it was rats had to do to end up in Hell. Perhaps this was where they'd originated; it wouldn't have surprised him at all.
While he hadn't managed to find anywhere comfortable and safe to stay, and the Sandlot was quite free of any hygienic water source that might have washed the caked dust and mud out of his thick, dark hair, he counted himself among the lucky few that hadn't attracted the attention of any of the resident demons just yet. Perhaps unlike the others, his soul only had a light patina of evil, making it that much less interesting to those demons that would have otherwise devoured him.
Perhaps it was the smell.
Oh, the smell!
Once, as a very young man, his girlfriend had dragged him along to her church, as some sort of 'bonding' experience, and they had told him that Hell smelled of fire, and that the air tasted of brimstone. He'd laughed at them then, and, to be honest, he was laughing at them now; their description, meant to put the fear of God into the minds of naive little children, would have been pleasant compared to the stench that permeated the Sandlot. It smelled like rotting meat left out to bake in the sun, mixed in part with the scent of Ezra's own sweat, which was beginning to become overwhelming. He'd rinsed himself off as best he could in a shower located in one of the abandoned houses, but it had done no good. The water smelled of sulphur and sewage, and was nearly the same red-brown color as the sky, filled with blood and dirt and God-only-knew what else.
Now he was hearing rumors, whispers among the damned that there was a way to get out of this blasted place, if only one was willing to do the unspeakable. Hearts, he had heard, and the thought made his stomach churn now as it had at the time. Eating the hearts of other souls like himself before the native demons could sink their fangs into them. That was the way to escape.
Of course, the price was employment with Hell itself, but Ezra didn't see redemption lurking around any of the corners in his future, and he was sure he'd worked for less pleasant employers in his past. He fiddled with the switch blade in his pocket. It was crusted with mood, and perhaps a little blood, and Ezra didn't know what else. He'd plucked it out of the body of some poor man or demon (it was hard to tell once they were dead, except that generally, there was more left of demons) who'd crossed paths with the wrong individual and had learned their lesson for it.
He turned the knife over in his hands, and thought about what he had to do.
It was all he could do to keep from retching. Five hearts--perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. Perhaps he could work around his fears, now that he was dead.
Ezra stood against a cracking wall, covered from top to bottom with what was left of some very sad-looking vinyl siding, and thought. It was going to be a long Eternity.
The setting changes from The Sandlot to An Unsuspecting Realm of the Multiverse
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She believes all beginnings and endings could very well be as simple as a lazy stretch. Pulling one's muscle's and cracking one's bones into proper form, both for activity and recline. One reaches with the toes to ease the body and mind; one arches at the back in the morn, to begin moving with increasingly renewed vigor. How was it that all the philosophers and scientists and poets have not yet figured out this little ditty? Perhaps they did. Maya did not keep track of the world's running stride until she overheard buzzing crowds.
And today, there was a crowd buzzing away, though it was one not forthcoming with any interesting information, outside signaling the arrival of fresh blood--a good batch today, it seemed. It was in Hell that she positioned herself to observe the day. She had nothing to specifically watch out for, merely seeking to soak in the energies, animosity, sounds of voracious slurps and contented, shivering sighs through pointed teeth--not much different than sun bathing. She found she did not mind the atmosphere too terribly either, perched as high as she was. Although "perched" may be the wrong word, for she lacked the intimidating leer and coiled-to-strike readiness of a gargoyle or a cobra. Instead, she was on her stomach, legs crossed and bent at the knees, sprawled about arms barely concealing the lower half of her face. Even her tail was mainly stagnant, flicking only from time to time like a zebra batting away flies (which may have been precisely what it was doing). Illustrating the very picture of sloth was the succubus's goal in life, it seemed. Her ankles switched positions, other above the one.
She did not budge (though there was a determinedly slow movement between the eyelids) even when a damned one meandered unsuspectingly, dangerously, into a crumbling shack her current roost was likely meant to safeguard. Oh, he was certainly a baby among longer legs, still in clothes barely unkempt--and she should know of unkempt clothes. It would be much too easy to pluck him free of a pulsating organ should he be lacking that glint of a weapon. "Best you be on your way, beloved," she crooned quietly.
And today, there was a crowd buzzing away, though it was one not forthcoming with any interesting information, outside signaling the arrival of fresh blood--a good batch today, it seemed. It was in Hell that she positioned herself to observe the day. She had nothing to specifically watch out for, merely seeking to soak in the energies, animosity, sounds of voracious slurps and contented, shivering sighs through pointed teeth--not much different than sun bathing. She found she did not mind the atmosphere too terribly either, perched as high as she was. Although "perched" may be the wrong word, for she lacked the intimidating leer and coiled-to-strike readiness of a gargoyle or a cobra. Instead, she was on her stomach, legs crossed and bent at the knees, sprawled about arms barely concealing the lower half of her face. Even her tail was mainly stagnant, flicking only from time to time like a zebra batting away flies (which may have been precisely what it was doing). Illustrating the very picture of sloth was the succubus's goal in life, it seemed. Her ankles switched positions, other above the one.
She did not budge (though there was a determinedly slow movement between the eyelids) even when a damned one meandered unsuspectingly, dangerously, into a crumbling shack her current roost was likely meant to safeguard. Oh, he was certainly a baby among longer legs, still in clothes barely unkempt--and she should know of unkempt clothes. It would be much too easy to pluck him free of a pulsating organ should he be lacking that glint of a weapon. "Best you be on your way, beloved," she crooned quietly.
The setting changes from An Unsuspecting Realm of the Multiverse to The Sandlot
Rot. Dust. Crimson skies. Just as you would expect hell would be like.
Underneath the crimson skies and blood red clouds, an angel laid. Angel? No, not an angel, not any more. If he was still an angel he wouldn't be in hell. No, this creature was a Fallen, an exile from the kingdom of heaven, cast out for warped beliefs and hunger for power. Stripped of everything, his name, his powers, even the marvelous hues of an angel left him. Thus, the Fallen laid on the rough ground, a mixture of dirt, sand, and rot from the smell of it, and watched as the clouds rolled by.
The Fallen had yet to rise to his feet, his exile fresh on his mind. His thoughts concerned themselves with how he ended up here, his missteps, his mistakes. To fall from such a height, to be discard like trash. It irked him. He wasn't angry, indeed, it was unclear if this Fallen even had a temper. Upon reflection, he could see the reasons of his exile. "Power," The Fallen said in a hushed tone, his voice a stark contrast with eerie landscape. Power. That was his undoing. That was what corrupted him. Power led him to shun the mortals. 'Let them fend for themselves, while I do the same,' he had said, 'Why should we help those lesser than ourselves? They are a destructive people, hurdling towards a demise by their own hand. Let him taste the end they so desperately crave.' His last words as an angel, and his first as a Fallen.
Ambition got the better of him in heaven but here... Here in the bowels of hell. That same ambition would drive him. It would serve him in this dark place, with no friends, with no allies, where only the strong survived. True, he never been to hell himself, but he was told of the place. Where the only thing one could look forward to was a knife to the back and seeing your heart eaten before your very eyes. The angels made sure to not have anything to do with hell, he was no exception. The demons he had met before his fall were frightened. Why wouldn't they be? He was their antithesis. A being of light. Now though... Now he was one of them.
The Fallen let his thoughts drift off in one deep breath. He slowly rose to a sitting position, allowing his wings to fan out and stretch. Laying on them for extended periods would no doubt put them to sleep. Besides, he needed to assess the damage done by his fall. The first thing that struck him was his coloration. Rather, lack thereof. No too long ago, he was brilliantly colored, pure white clothes, golden accents, and peerless jewelry. Now everything was black and shades of gray. His once pure white robes, now a dull gray. His jewels, once shined, now blackened. His skin, sickly pale. A glance to his side asserted the damage. White wings now black. Even his hair, the ends which he could see, once blonde, now gray. He had no doubt his eyes had the same treatment, turning from blue to some depressing hue.
He wasn't surprised. He only accepted it with a grim disposition. He lifted his hand, palms out and tried to search for the power he once controlled. Magics of sorts. Yet, where the reserves of such miracles once resided as a pool in his self, now a treacly puddle remained. Instead of his hands glowing from holy magic, they darkened as the infernal magic took it's place. The Fallen sighed, still unsurprised. It would take a while to regain any semblance of power once again. Then something caught the corner of his eye. To say that it was a sparkle or a glint would be a lie, more like... An absence of such. He looked over and was greeted by his blade, the one he wielded while he was a servant of heaven. The blade was stuck in the foul dirt, edge first, waiting on it's master to draw it once again. However, like it's master, it too was changed and perverted. Once a brilliant silver, now it was a foreboding black. Where it once shimmered, it now ate all light that struck it's edge.
"Fitting," The fallen said, as he caressed the hilt of the single edged blade. His hand tensed around the handle, and withdrew it from the ground and held it up to the sky, looking into the blackness. Musing, the Fallen spoke to himself, "If I have truly fallen from heaven... Then I shall rise in hell," He said, finally rising to his feet. His time in the light is over, now to work in the dark.
Underneath the crimson skies and blood red clouds, an angel laid. Angel? No, not an angel, not any more. If he was still an angel he wouldn't be in hell. No, this creature was a Fallen, an exile from the kingdom of heaven, cast out for warped beliefs and hunger for power. Stripped of everything, his name, his powers, even the marvelous hues of an angel left him. Thus, the Fallen laid on the rough ground, a mixture of dirt, sand, and rot from the smell of it, and watched as the clouds rolled by.
The Fallen had yet to rise to his feet, his exile fresh on his mind. His thoughts concerned themselves with how he ended up here, his missteps, his mistakes. To fall from such a height, to be discard like trash. It irked him. He wasn't angry, indeed, it was unclear if this Fallen even had a temper. Upon reflection, he could see the reasons of his exile. "Power," The Fallen said in a hushed tone, his voice a stark contrast with eerie landscape. Power. That was his undoing. That was what corrupted him. Power led him to shun the mortals. 'Let them fend for themselves, while I do the same,' he had said, 'Why should we help those lesser than ourselves? They are a destructive people, hurdling towards a demise by their own hand. Let him taste the end they so desperately crave.' His last words as an angel, and his first as a Fallen.
Ambition got the better of him in heaven but here... Here in the bowels of hell. That same ambition would drive him. It would serve him in this dark place, with no friends, with no allies, where only the strong survived. True, he never been to hell himself, but he was told of the place. Where the only thing one could look forward to was a knife to the back and seeing your heart eaten before your very eyes. The angels made sure to not have anything to do with hell, he was no exception. The demons he had met before his fall were frightened. Why wouldn't they be? He was their antithesis. A being of light. Now though... Now he was one of them.
The Fallen let his thoughts drift off in one deep breath. He slowly rose to a sitting position, allowing his wings to fan out and stretch. Laying on them for extended periods would no doubt put them to sleep. Besides, he needed to assess the damage done by his fall. The first thing that struck him was his coloration. Rather, lack thereof. No too long ago, he was brilliantly colored, pure white clothes, golden accents, and peerless jewelry. Now everything was black and shades of gray. His once pure white robes, now a dull gray. His jewels, once shined, now blackened. His skin, sickly pale. A glance to his side asserted the damage. White wings now black. Even his hair, the ends which he could see, once blonde, now gray. He had no doubt his eyes had the same treatment, turning from blue to some depressing hue.
He wasn't surprised. He only accepted it with a grim disposition. He lifted his hand, palms out and tried to search for the power he once controlled. Magics of sorts. Yet, where the reserves of such miracles once resided as a pool in his self, now a treacly puddle remained. Instead of his hands glowing from holy magic, they darkened as the infernal magic took it's place. The Fallen sighed, still unsurprised. It would take a while to regain any semblance of power once again. Then something caught the corner of his eye. To say that it was a sparkle or a glint would be a lie, more like... An absence of such. He looked over and was greeted by his blade, the one he wielded while he was a servant of heaven. The blade was stuck in the foul dirt, edge first, waiting on it's master to draw it once again. However, like it's master, it too was changed and perverted. Once a brilliant silver, now it was a foreboding black. Where it once shimmered, it now ate all light that struck it's edge.
"Fitting," The fallen said, as he caressed the hilt of the single edged blade. His hand tensed around the handle, and withdrew it from the ground and held it up to the sky, looking into the blackness. Musing, the Fallen spoke to himself, "If I have truly fallen from heaven... Then I shall rise in hell," He said, finally rising to his feet. His time in the light is over, now to work in the dark.
The setting changes from The Sandlot to An Unsuspecting Realm of the Multiverse
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[Posted in the wrong place; DAMNDAMNDAMN]
The setting changes from An Unsuspecting Realm of the Multiverse to The Sandlot
Setting
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Ashy sand with snakeskin boots whirling through it.
The man was running, hard and fast. From whom, or what, he didn't have time to stop and fathom. A dagger of pain shot through his chest as he stormed down the wall of a mountainous dune, the winds whipping at his back. His shirt had been opened, as had the vest over it and the sweater beneath, and a wide cut split his abdomen just next to the heart. To say that it was mildly painful would be a vast understatement; the man would have said, without a hint of irony, that it burned like hellfire to anyone potentially listening to him. But, perhaps luckily, there was not a soul, be it man or demon, about for what seemed like miles. The desert stretched to the horizon, almost perfectly untouched. Hither and thither the frame of a squat building would protrude from the desert floor, its bleached planks exposed to the sky like a broken ribcage. Some of these structures looked horrible for a shelter; even from this distance the Marked Man could tell. However, he was not headed for any of these - some distance away, a squat building had managed to retain just enough of its external structure to be usable as a shelter, or a hiding place. He made his way towards that structure now.
His steps were long and quick, but careful - to lose his grip in the shifting sands would mean death by whatever forces followed him over these dunes, pursuing his heart. He would have normally turned and fought, but whatever this was had been large, angry, and in possession of many sharp objects. Were it not for the very human look on its face when he had cast coarse sand into its eyes, the man would almost have said it was a low Raker. All he knew was that it was angry, it was after him, and it had tried to take his heart, painfully - the jagged mark on his chest served as a reminder of that simple, brutal fact.
He was a few feet from the door now, and chanced a quick glance over his shoulder. Nothing but empty desert greeted his bloodshot eyes as he hurled himself bodily into the structure, entering through the blasted doorway, scattering whorls of sand in his wake. He was breathing heavily at this point, but his mind remained keen - his eyes cast about the room, searching for other inhabitants. Empty, empty, empty - wait.
'Another.'
His gaze fell upon the man across the room from him, dressed in a blue suit that looked to have seen only a few hours in the Sandlot; it was yet unstained by the labors of man and demon, untorn by the jagged landscape that sought to swallow both whole. In an instant, he was drawing one kukri from the sheath on his back, the other going to his medicine pouch, removing that bag of brick dust. With a practiced motion he undid the bag's mouth, then, keeping the point turned towards the suited man, turned his body to the doorstep he had just crossed and urinated on it. He quickly scrubbed the now-moist doorstep with the sole of his boot, clearing the sand from it, and then spread a thick line of the brick dust across it. He hurriedly redid his fly and stuffed the bag of brick dust into his medicine pouch again, then returned his gaze to the suited man before him.
"State your name and intent," he said slowly, panting slightly. "If it be your wish to take my heart, you will not have it without a fight."
The man was running, hard and fast. From whom, or what, he didn't have time to stop and fathom. A dagger of pain shot through his chest as he stormed down the wall of a mountainous dune, the winds whipping at his back. His shirt had been opened, as had the vest over it and the sweater beneath, and a wide cut split his abdomen just next to the heart. To say that it was mildly painful would be a vast understatement; the man would have said, without a hint of irony, that it burned like hellfire to anyone potentially listening to him. But, perhaps luckily, there was not a soul, be it man or demon, about for what seemed like miles. The desert stretched to the horizon, almost perfectly untouched. Hither and thither the frame of a squat building would protrude from the desert floor, its bleached planks exposed to the sky like a broken ribcage. Some of these structures looked horrible for a shelter; even from this distance the Marked Man could tell. However, he was not headed for any of these - some distance away, a squat building had managed to retain just enough of its external structure to be usable as a shelter, or a hiding place. He made his way towards that structure now.
His steps were long and quick, but careful - to lose his grip in the shifting sands would mean death by whatever forces followed him over these dunes, pursuing his heart. He would have normally turned and fought, but whatever this was had been large, angry, and in possession of many sharp objects. Were it not for the very human look on its face when he had cast coarse sand into its eyes, the man would almost have said it was a low Raker. All he knew was that it was angry, it was after him, and it had tried to take his heart, painfully - the jagged mark on his chest served as a reminder of that simple, brutal fact.
He was a few feet from the door now, and chanced a quick glance over his shoulder. Nothing but empty desert greeted his bloodshot eyes as he hurled himself bodily into the structure, entering through the blasted doorway, scattering whorls of sand in his wake. He was breathing heavily at this point, but his mind remained keen - his eyes cast about the room, searching for other inhabitants. Empty, empty, empty - wait.
'Another.'
His gaze fell upon the man across the room from him, dressed in a blue suit that looked to have seen only a few hours in the Sandlot; it was yet unstained by the labors of man and demon, untorn by the jagged landscape that sought to swallow both whole. In an instant, he was drawing one kukri from the sheath on his back, the other going to his medicine pouch, removing that bag of brick dust. With a practiced motion he undid the bag's mouth, then, keeping the point turned towards the suited man, turned his body to the doorstep he had just crossed and urinated on it. He quickly scrubbed the now-moist doorstep with the sole of his boot, clearing the sand from it, and then spread a thick line of the brick dust across it. He hurriedly redid his fly and stuffed the bag of brick dust into his medicine pouch again, then returned his gaze to the suited man before him.
"State your name and intent," he said slowly, panting slightly. "If it be your wish to take my heart, you will not have it without a fight."
He ran his fingers along the edge of the blade, scraping the grooves along the back with his long, sharp thumbnail to free them of the mud and dust recent endeavors had caused them to accumulate. The knife was going to fail him soon, he could tell by the jagged feeling that ripping into his most recent victim had caused. In some places, it couldn't even cut skin, let alone the thick, tough tissue of muscle that connected an individual's heart to the rest of his body. In the Sandlot, you lost a lot of knives, not that Nasir was counting (thirty-seven, and this one would make thirty-eight), some stolen, some dulled, some broken, and others left to rot when their owners abandoned them in a hasty retreat. He wasn't looking forward to finding another, but there was little to sharpen them on, and no Infernal magic would touch their blades.
Counter-intuitive, yes, but one had to assume it was to keep the games as fair as Hell could ever possibly allow. Damned souls, after all, could rely on no such things.
Not that it was necessary to use a knife in order to remove a man's heart, but it had something of a nostalgic quality to it.
He then cleaned the undersides of his nails with the tips of his blade, flinging the muck to the dusty ground irreverently. There had to be a word for that substance, that thick, warm mixture that could no more be mud without water than the Wastelands beyond might have been deserts with it. Of course, there was a word for everything in Infernal, but Nasir considered that to be cheating. He hadn't spoken Infernal in something like twenty years, and he wasn't intending to start up again now.
He wiped the blood from his mouth, and for a moment, thought about savoring the sweet, metallic taste the way a child might strongly consider sampling some strange and unknown substance that had suddenly found its way to his mouth. He thought better of it, though; the blood, as far as Nasir was concerned, was the worst part of the corpse, and there was always so much of it.
Nasir had devoured only the heart of the damned soul lying on the ground before him, leaving enough for a fellow demon to come along and make a quick meal of it, if he could catch it before the rot set in. A young enough demon might even take the chance, ignoring the distinct scratch patterns on the man's arms and stomach—Infernal sigils that would, once the meat was consumed, slowly kill the scavenger and ensure that his death was attributed to Nasir.
He'd baited many of these traps before, but so far, no one had bitten. Perhaps it was time to choose a new hobby.
Ezra blanched.
He had been in Hell for a total of perhaps a week, although by now each day was beginning to fade into the next, but surely his luck could not have already worn out. Somewhere above him, a slippery voice that most likely belonged to one of the natives rang out loud and clear, its texture—and a palpable texture it was—evoking images he wasn't sure he wanted to see. Dead men, as far as he was concerned, didn't have pulses for a reason, and at the moment, he was fighting to keep it that way. He didn't have glands anymore, in any sense of the word, but adrenaline or something like it was beginning to pump its way through his veins. His eyes scanned the rafters just overhead for the voice's origin, and spotted a figure in repose, looking almost like a cadaver, but more languid, and arguably more animated.
And then he remembered the object he'd been playing with only moments ago, and though apprehension and fear still coursed through his veins, it gave him some comfort. Perhaps his luck wasn't quite as bad as he'd thought. He thumbed the small knife in his pocket, just in case.
And then, as if the day couldn't get any worse, there was suddenly another voice in the room, attached to another entity—and this one looked far more like he was prepared to tussle than the woman roosted above him. His muscles tensed, the echo of a once-physical parasympathetic nervous system that had never gotten much use in life, but was going to be damned sure it didn't end up anywhere worse than here. Fight or flight.
But Ezra had never been a fighter. In the last years of his life (God, was he calling them that already?), he'd spent every other afternoon in the gym, trying (unsuccessfully) to bulk up his slender frame. He'd never actually had to use those muscles before, however. Once, in middle school, he'd taken a swing at a boy who'd slung some fairly choice slurs at him, for an eleven year old. One swing was all he'd gotten in; the boy, two years his senior, had “defended” himself, and Ezra had found himself suspended for a week, three days of which were spent nursing a recurring nosebleed.
Trapped. The masked man was standing between Ezra and the door—directly next to the door frame, to be exact, and his actions thereupon had left the usually neat and cleanly Ezra wondering if he'd encountered a madman. They were common in the Sandlot, he'd heard, the sanity driven from their heads by either guilt or power, and being stuck between a madman and a demon, he was rather certain he'd take the demon.
His grip on the pocketknife tightened momentarily, but there was something about the tense set in the man's shoulders that betrayed the hopelessness of the situation, should it come to blows. It was time for a new plan, and perhaps the man would listen to reason. Ezra straightened his shoulders and tried very hard not to smile.
“Ezra Morrow,” he said, almost mechanically, fulfilling the first of the man's requests. “I made the mistake of wandering into this place looking for shelter, same as you. Looks like we're probably both in something of a pickle now.” At this, he glanced pointedly at the woman perched above them, and hoped against hope that something about all this was going to work out.
Counter-intuitive, yes, but one had to assume it was to keep the games as fair as Hell could ever possibly allow. Damned souls, after all, could rely on no such things.
Not that it was necessary to use a knife in order to remove a man's heart, but it had something of a nostalgic quality to it.
He then cleaned the undersides of his nails with the tips of his blade, flinging the muck to the dusty ground irreverently. There had to be a word for that substance, that thick, warm mixture that could no more be mud without water than the Wastelands beyond might have been deserts with it. Of course, there was a word for everything in Infernal, but Nasir considered that to be cheating. He hadn't spoken Infernal in something like twenty years, and he wasn't intending to start up again now.
He wiped the blood from his mouth, and for a moment, thought about savoring the sweet, metallic taste the way a child might strongly consider sampling some strange and unknown substance that had suddenly found its way to his mouth. He thought better of it, though; the blood, as far as Nasir was concerned, was the worst part of the corpse, and there was always so much of it.
Nasir had devoured only the heart of the damned soul lying on the ground before him, leaving enough for a fellow demon to come along and make a quick meal of it, if he could catch it before the rot set in. A young enough demon might even take the chance, ignoring the distinct scratch patterns on the man's arms and stomach—Infernal sigils that would, once the meat was consumed, slowly kill the scavenger and ensure that his death was attributed to Nasir.
He'd baited many of these traps before, but so far, no one had bitten. Perhaps it was time to choose a new hobby.
Ezra blanched.
He had been in Hell for a total of perhaps a week, although by now each day was beginning to fade into the next, but surely his luck could not have already worn out. Somewhere above him, a slippery voice that most likely belonged to one of the natives rang out loud and clear, its texture—and a palpable texture it was—evoking images he wasn't sure he wanted to see. Dead men, as far as he was concerned, didn't have pulses for a reason, and at the moment, he was fighting to keep it that way. He didn't have glands anymore, in any sense of the word, but adrenaline or something like it was beginning to pump its way through his veins. His eyes scanned the rafters just overhead for the voice's origin, and spotted a figure in repose, looking almost like a cadaver, but more languid, and arguably more animated.
And then he remembered the object he'd been playing with only moments ago, and though apprehension and fear still coursed through his veins, it gave him some comfort. Perhaps his luck wasn't quite as bad as he'd thought. He thumbed the small knife in his pocket, just in case.
And then, as if the day couldn't get any worse, there was suddenly another voice in the room, attached to another entity—and this one looked far more like he was prepared to tussle than the woman roosted above him. His muscles tensed, the echo of a once-physical parasympathetic nervous system that had never gotten much use in life, but was going to be damned sure it didn't end up anywhere worse than here. Fight or flight.
But Ezra had never been a fighter. In the last years of his life (God, was he calling them that already?), he'd spent every other afternoon in the gym, trying (unsuccessfully) to bulk up his slender frame. He'd never actually had to use those muscles before, however. Once, in middle school, he'd taken a swing at a boy who'd slung some fairly choice slurs at him, for an eleven year old. One swing was all he'd gotten in; the boy, two years his senior, had “defended” himself, and Ezra had found himself suspended for a week, three days of which were spent nursing a recurring nosebleed.
Trapped. The masked man was standing between Ezra and the door—directly next to the door frame, to be exact, and his actions thereupon had left the usually neat and cleanly Ezra wondering if he'd encountered a madman. They were common in the Sandlot, he'd heard, the sanity driven from their heads by either guilt or power, and being stuck between a madman and a demon, he was rather certain he'd take the demon.
His grip on the pocketknife tightened momentarily, but there was something about the tense set in the man's shoulders that betrayed the hopelessness of the situation, should it come to blows. It was time for a new plan, and perhaps the man would listen to reason. Ezra straightened his shoulders and tried very hard not to smile.
“Ezra Morrow,” he said, almost mechanically, fulfilling the first of the man's requests. “I made the mistake of wandering into this place looking for shelter, same as you. Looks like we're probably both in something of a pickle now.” At this, he glanced pointedly at the woman perched above them, and hoped against hope that something about all this was going to work out.
Something was going to happen today. Ephraim wasn’t entirely sure what it was, but it was something he was fairly certain was relatively important, and unfortunately that meant he had to get out of the house.
Probably. He was fairly certain that’s what that meant.
Muttering to himself, he slid on the only pair of shoes he’d found, the cracked leather worn and shiny with age. The rough soles felt cool against his feet, and he frowned as he stepped across the creaking whitewashed floorboards. He grunted and kicked off the offending objects before grabbing the worn rucksack he kept by the door. The frayed canvas was of an indiscriminate color, dye faded and dirty beyond recognition. With little ceremony he turned the thing upside down, shaking out its contents before zipping it up sliding it, empty, onto his back. Pausing a moment to ensure he forgot nothing, Ephraim scrambled through planks of the boarded up bay window, paying the glass that crunched beneath his bare feet little heed as he hoisted himself through the threshold. On the other side, his feet padded softly against hard-packed red dirt.
After an hour or so of wandering he found himself in what appeared to have once been a small cluster of decrepit outbuildings, much like those found on farms. Farms that had been uninhabited for thirty years. Places like this were ideal for scavenging—Hell was kind enough to provide some materials to its inhabitants, though the condition you found them in always left something to be desired. Already his bag lay heavy against his back, pieces of scrap metal and a ragged men’s work shirt taking up a fair amount of room. He could find uses for the the scrap later, he imagined, or he could trade it, and the shirt’s shoulders looked narrow enough that he might be able to wear it. The holes made him pause, though—perhaps it would make better bedding. He’d just taken off his backpack to add a hairbrush (the soft bristles were bent and dusty and the embossed silver of the handle was tarnished, but he thought it was nice) when he heard the running of feet. A huge dust cloud was quickly descending upon the area, and at its head he saw, to his horror, what almost certainly had to be a Raker. Someone else, too, but he doubted they would last long.
Scrambling, he tried to close the zipper on his bag, growling in frustration as it snagged on the fraying threads. Panic was already setting in and he left it, taking off in a sprint. Normally in a situation such as this he would spread his wings and try to get to higher ground, but he doubted any of the surrounding buildings’ roofs would hold his weight and his wings badly needed maintenance—he highly doubted to amount of dirty and damaged feathers would allow him to consistently keep both out of reach and moving fast enough that the Raker would tire before he would. His animal instincts kicked in and he started for the nearest building, a small, drab affair with a collapsed roof. He figured it would do in a pinch, and the sooner he could get into shelter, the sooner he could hide. Hide, and hope that the other poor soul was enough to satisfy.
He had nearly made it to the shed when he realized the noise of the chase had ended; not only that, there were also no sounds of organs being ripped violently from anyone’s chest. Unfortunately, in his moment of hesitation he faltered just enough that when his foot caught on one of the many pieces of garbage littering the uneven terrain he felt to the ground, immediately regretting the shout of surprise accompanying the tumble.
From somewhere behind the very same structure he’d been running for came a screech that made his blood run cold. Cursing, he scooted around enough to see what had tripped him. The darkly finished chair leg appeared to have some heft to it, and even if it didn’t, the bent nails sticking from the top looked as if they were sharp. Makeshift weapon in hand he clambered to his feet, making a mad dash for a squat building not too far from where he stood. What had become of the Raker’s previous prey was beyond him, but, as he approached the building and (presumed) safety, he found he really didn’t care. It wasn’t until he was upon the building and scrabbling over what broken planks remained of a back door that he wondered what in the world had possessed him, thinking that enclosing himself in an unfamiliar building was the best way to shake this thing.
It wasn’t as if they couldn’t use doors, and now he was going to be cornered. Stuck between a wall and painful, agonizing death. There were few ways that this could have been a poorer strategic decision. In fact, the only way he could feasibly imagine it being much worse was to have walked in on a meeting between three other demons. Well—he noted with relief—one demon and two meatsacks. A little easier to handle, but still more than Ephraim could possibly hope to overtake on his own. For a glimmer of a second he considered trying to jump out the back door again, but he tightened his grip on his chair leg.
He coughed, nervously eying what felt like a very open entryway into the building. He inched away from the way he had come through. “Safe passage?” he asked hesitantly, coughing on the dust he’d raised. He surveyed the three and bit his lip, not expecting stellar results.
Probably. He was fairly certain that’s what that meant.
Muttering to himself, he slid on the only pair of shoes he’d found, the cracked leather worn and shiny with age. The rough soles felt cool against his feet, and he frowned as he stepped across the creaking whitewashed floorboards. He grunted and kicked off the offending objects before grabbing the worn rucksack he kept by the door. The frayed canvas was of an indiscriminate color, dye faded and dirty beyond recognition. With little ceremony he turned the thing upside down, shaking out its contents before zipping it up sliding it, empty, onto his back. Pausing a moment to ensure he forgot nothing, Ephraim scrambled through planks of the boarded up bay window, paying the glass that crunched beneath his bare feet little heed as he hoisted himself through the threshold. On the other side, his feet padded softly against hard-packed red dirt.
After an hour or so of wandering he found himself in what appeared to have once been a small cluster of decrepit outbuildings, much like those found on farms. Farms that had been uninhabited for thirty years. Places like this were ideal for scavenging—Hell was kind enough to provide some materials to its inhabitants, though the condition you found them in always left something to be desired. Already his bag lay heavy against his back, pieces of scrap metal and a ragged men’s work shirt taking up a fair amount of room. He could find uses for the the scrap later, he imagined, or he could trade it, and the shirt’s shoulders looked narrow enough that he might be able to wear it. The holes made him pause, though—perhaps it would make better bedding. He’d just taken off his backpack to add a hairbrush (the soft bristles were bent and dusty and the embossed silver of the handle was tarnished, but he thought it was nice) when he heard the running of feet. A huge dust cloud was quickly descending upon the area, and at its head he saw, to his horror, what almost certainly had to be a Raker. Someone else, too, but he doubted they would last long.
Scrambling, he tried to close the zipper on his bag, growling in frustration as it snagged on the fraying threads. Panic was already setting in and he left it, taking off in a sprint. Normally in a situation such as this he would spread his wings and try to get to higher ground, but he doubted any of the surrounding buildings’ roofs would hold his weight and his wings badly needed maintenance—he highly doubted to amount of dirty and damaged feathers would allow him to consistently keep both out of reach and moving fast enough that the Raker would tire before he would. His animal instincts kicked in and he started for the nearest building, a small, drab affair with a collapsed roof. He figured it would do in a pinch, and the sooner he could get into shelter, the sooner he could hide. Hide, and hope that the other poor soul was enough to satisfy.
He had nearly made it to the shed when he realized the noise of the chase had ended; not only that, there were also no sounds of organs being ripped violently from anyone’s chest. Unfortunately, in his moment of hesitation he faltered just enough that when his foot caught on one of the many pieces of garbage littering the uneven terrain he felt to the ground, immediately regretting the shout of surprise accompanying the tumble.
From somewhere behind the very same structure he’d been running for came a screech that made his blood run cold. Cursing, he scooted around enough to see what had tripped him. The darkly finished chair leg appeared to have some heft to it, and even if it didn’t, the bent nails sticking from the top looked as if they were sharp. Makeshift weapon in hand he clambered to his feet, making a mad dash for a squat building not too far from where he stood. What had become of the Raker’s previous prey was beyond him, but, as he approached the building and (presumed) safety, he found he really didn’t care. It wasn’t until he was upon the building and scrabbling over what broken planks remained of a back door that he wondered what in the world had possessed him, thinking that enclosing himself in an unfamiliar building was the best way to shake this thing.
It wasn’t as if they couldn’t use doors, and now he was going to be cornered. Stuck between a wall and painful, agonizing death. There were few ways that this could have been a poorer strategic decision. In fact, the only way he could feasibly imagine it being much worse was to have walked in on a meeting between three other demons. Well—he noted with relief—one demon and two meatsacks. A little easier to handle, but still more than Ephraim could possibly hope to overtake on his own. For a glimmer of a second he considered trying to jump out the back door again, but he tightened his grip on his chair leg.
He coughed, nervously eying what felt like a very open entryway into the building. He inched away from the way he had come through. “Safe passage?” he asked hesitantly, coughing on the dust he’d raised. He surveyed the three and bit his lip, not expecting stellar results.
The setting changes from The Sandlot to An Unsuspecting Realm of the Multiverse
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[Posted in the wrong location again]
The setting changes from An Unsuspecting Realm of the Multiverse to The Sandlot
Somewhere, deep inside the annals of his faded, time-ravaged memory, a phrase dug its way to the surface of the Marked Man's mind - 'Trouble always travels in threes.'
The first two had been there prior to his arrival. It was more than obvious that the first was the young man who stood before him, the nervous-looking one in the suit, with his hands obscured from view. Ezra, his name was - a Biblical name, an Old Testament one, although passages from the chapter didn't come to him at the time. He spoke well enough, keeping himself calm and composed, although obviously nervous.
Perhaps it was the two foot long kukri staring him in the face.
The Marked One had just begun to return his kukri to its sheath when he suddenly realized that Ezra was pointing. The knife went back to Ezra's throat as the man followed his hand upwards, into the ruined rafters of the building. Bloodshot eyes traced across the interlocked wooden girders, pupils darting from one place to the next, searching for the subject of Ezra's observations. Eventualy, his eyes settled upon the disturbance. There, nestled in the rafters, looking for all the world like the picture of earthly beauty and sloth, was a woman. Her red hair dangled low, through the ceiling, like...
Old Man's Beard in the sunset -
The man, however, wasn't about to be fooled by her physical charms. His eyes narrowed, and he wrapped his hand around his second kukri, keeping it holstered for now. "You, consort of the dark one." His voice had taken on a certain authority now; not otherworldly, by any measure, rather that of a practiced orator. Booming, enunciated, almost threatening - even to those it wasn't directed at. "You will leave this place and cause no disturbance, or it will not be the flesh of the damned you pleasure yourself with this night, but the final sleep of cold steel upon your throat."
At that precise moment, a dustpile blew into the room through an unseen back door. The man released a wordless cry of surprise and rage, his free hand raising over his shoulder and hurling the unsheathed kukri in his direction. There was a dull thwom-thwom-thwom sound as the heavy knife somersaulted lazily through the air, then a decisive qwop sound as it embedded in the remains of the back doorframe, close enough to the dustpile's body to be threatening but not enough to actually hit him - rather, it had been designed to buy him time.
Time enough to draw the low-slung pistol on his belt.
Which was now pointed at the dustpile. The other kukri was facing the succubus.
The Marked Man's eyes - his most dangerous weapon - were glaring into Ezra's, daring him to make a move. Without averting his gaze, he shouted purposefully: "Every armed being in this building will cease to be so immediately, lest they want to try their hands at single combat. And I make a promise here - only one of us will be walking away." He scowled, slightly.
"Everyone. Drop them. Now. And you, Jezebel. Down from the rafters. Stand with us a while, let us have a friendly conversation."
The tone of his voice implied anything but friendliness.
The first two had been there prior to his arrival. It was more than obvious that the first was the young man who stood before him, the nervous-looking one in the suit, with his hands obscured from view. Ezra, his name was - a Biblical name, an Old Testament one, although passages from the chapter didn't come to him at the time. He spoke well enough, keeping himself calm and composed, although obviously nervous.
Perhaps it was the two foot long kukri staring him in the face.
The Marked One had just begun to return his kukri to its sheath when he suddenly realized that Ezra was pointing. The knife went back to Ezra's throat as the man followed his hand upwards, into the ruined rafters of the building. Bloodshot eyes traced across the interlocked wooden girders, pupils darting from one place to the next, searching for the subject of Ezra's observations. Eventualy, his eyes settled upon the disturbance. There, nestled in the rafters, looking for all the world like the picture of earthly beauty and sloth, was a woman. Her red hair dangled low, through the ceiling, like...
Old Man's Beard in the sunset -
The man, however, wasn't about to be fooled by her physical charms. His eyes narrowed, and he wrapped his hand around his second kukri, keeping it holstered for now. "You, consort of the dark one." His voice had taken on a certain authority now; not otherworldly, by any measure, rather that of a practiced orator. Booming, enunciated, almost threatening - even to those it wasn't directed at. "You will leave this place and cause no disturbance, or it will not be the flesh of the damned you pleasure yourself with this night, but the final sleep of cold steel upon your throat."
At that precise moment, a dustpile blew into the room through an unseen back door. The man released a wordless cry of surprise and rage, his free hand raising over his shoulder and hurling the unsheathed kukri in his direction. There was a dull thwom-thwom-thwom sound as the heavy knife somersaulted lazily through the air, then a decisive qwop sound as it embedded in the remains of the back doorframe, close enough to the dustpile's body to be threatening but not enough to actually hit him - rather, it had been designed to buy him time.
Time enough to draw the low-slung pistol on his belt.
Which was now pointed at the dustpile. The other kukri was facing the succubus.
The Marked Man's eyes - his most dangerous weapon - were glaring into Ezra's, daring him to make a move. Without averting his gaze, he shouted purposefully: "Every armed being in this building will cease to be so immediately, lest they want to try their hands at single combat. And I make a promise here - only one of us will be walking away." He scowled, slightly.
"Everyone. Drop them. Now. And you, Jezebel. Down from the rafters. Stand with us a while, let us have a friendly conversation."
The tone of his voice implied anything but friendliness.
The setting changes from An Unsuspecting Realm of the Multiverse to The Sandlot
A heart. It wasn't like any heart he had ever seen. This one was black and twisted, oozing treacly blood. It's one-time host lay at the Fallen's feet, it's head a couple of feet away from it's body. The sand around the Fallen was wet with the black blood of the demon, and even his cloths was splotched in the vile liquid. A large spot situated under his eye, yet the Fallen didn't seem to notice, nor care. He was too busy examining his prize. Turning the heart over in his hand, he remembered something he was told in heaven a long, long time ago. Demon's had to eat the hearts of their brethren to rise in the ranks of Hell. His lips curled in disgust and he spit in defiance. Was he really going to have to eat this cursed thing?
The Fallen sighed and his shoulders dropped. However much he hated it, was disgusted by it, he would have to do it. That was a rule of Hell, and which of he was now a citizen of. He might as well become a good citizen and display some sort of ambition. He sighed and brought the heart up to his mouth. Hesitating for a moment, he bit into the organ like one would bite into an apple. The black blood further smeared on his face and lips, with what liquid still remained in the organ dripping down onto his monochrome clothing.
The taste was... Not unpleasant. While indescribable, it wasn't disgusting. If ventured a guess, the Fallen would say that it tasted like... Power. Only a taste though, as the owner of the heart was a worthless peon who believed he could take a Fallen on in combat. While his powers may have been depleted he was not weak in the slightest. But the heart. The Fallen found himself wondering if the more powerful demon hearts had a more potent taste. As he swallowed the infernal tissue, he could feel the strength enter his limbs. It wasn't much strength, much like itch in his veins, and soon the feeling was gone. But the memory of the feeling was still there and it felt good.
Greedily, he finished the heart in mere seconds, desperately searching for the same itch, trying to wring every last ounce of strength out of the petty little organ. The only thing that remained was the blood smeared on his lips and his clothes. There were nothing else to be gained from it, and it made the Fallen irritated. He needed more hearts. He needed power, he needed the strength. He gave his sword a hard jerk, expelling the blood that still lingered on his blade, and left. Searching for more hearts to devour to satiate his own greedy heart.
After wandering what felt like hours without a single other demon in sight, the Fallen was becoming agitated. Hell was supposed to be crawling with evil men and terrible demons and the only one he had met was that one unfortunate to have his head separated from his body. His eyelids were beginning to drop, and his now clean lips (Some inherent infernal magic apparently) was set in a deep scowl. The fact that he had managed to be caught in a forsaken sandstorm didn't help matters. The Fallen's eyes drifted up, and noticed that the dusty clouds had shifted enough for him to catch a glimpse of the sun. A blood red thing just hanging in the sky. It was... Intoxicating, and to the Fallen angel, the most beautiful thing in this cesspool of Hell. He didn't see the buildings in the near distance. But he did manage to find the ground.
Suddenly, the Fallen went from looking to the sky and blood sun, to the dusty ground in seconds. He pulled his face out of the sand, his eyebrows furrowed in irritation. He had tripped on something. He rolled over and looked to his feet. It was a... Backpack? What was a backpack doing in the middle of nowhere? Curiosity took hold, much like her did the bag. It was still partially open and inside he could see scraps of iron and clothing in the bag. He wondered who would have left it. Either way, it was of some value, for it was in a backpack. The Fallen fiddled with the zipper himself, and zipped it completely. He may need to trade it for something later down the line. He slipped it on his back, he heard a piercing scream. A scream that only meant one thing.
A demon.
A wicked grin curled his lips. Another heart. His pace quickened and his sword rested on his shoulder, hunting for the owner of the screech. It was near the cluster of houses he had glanced over earlier. As he approached the house, the owner seemed to all but had disappeared. The fallen stopped and surveyed the area in front of him as the dust cloud began to settle. Nothing but houses. He didn't even hear anything. At least not at first.
Another screech pierced the infernal air, and this time it was closer... Too close. The Fallen's wings went taut and flapped, sending the man forward and out of the sharp talons of the demon. Then, one wing went stiff as the other flapped, bringing the fallen about face. Finally, the Fallen had a good view of his prey. And what a view it was. A large creature, almost humanoid in nature. Barring the impressive amounts of sharp objects studding it, anyway. It almost made the Fallen's black blade look silly in comparison.
He sighed, this wasn't going to be as easy as the last demon he fought.. But the creature's delicious heart ought to make up for that. He grinned and licked his lips in anticipation. The Fallen angled his blade at the beast and awaited it's next move.
He didn't have to wait long, as the Raker lunged, all of it's sharp talons and blades looking to pincushion the former angel. His eyes widened in surprise at the sudden intensity and angled his blade to guard against some of the blades, and used what little infernal magic he had to throw up a black shield in front of him. While the blades did not penetrate, the force was still there and viciously threw the Fallen backward and through a nearby house. The weak wall collapsed under his weight and he didn't stop until he was in what was once the living room.
His head was spinning, but he got to his feet anyway and started forward. That was when he noticed he wasn't alone in the house. Others were there too, in various stages of distrust. He even saw a gun being pointed at another winged being. But these were not his prey. He was outside. The Fallen strode forward and said, "Do not interfere," in a low melodic, almost musical and foreboding voice, "For it's bleeding heart is mine."
With that, he strode out of the house in the same hole he had entered in and faced off with the Raker. His wings began to beat, cleaning the dust off of himself as he approached the infernal being. His sword was pointing menacingly at the beast, and his other hand was enveloped in a black flame. He said only one word to the being before they charged each other.
"Come."
The Fallen sighed and his shoulders dropped. However much he hated it, was disgusted by it, he would have to do it. That was a rule of Hell, and which of he was now a citizen of. He might as well become a good citizen and display some sort of ambition. He sighed and brought the heart up to his mouth. Hesitating for a moment, he bit into the organ like one would bite into an apple. The black blood further smeared on his face and lips, with what liquid still remained in the organ dripping down onto his monochrome clothing.
The taste was... Not unpleasant. While indescribable, it wasn't disgusting. If ventured a guess, the Fallen would say that it tasted like... Power. Only a taste though, as the owner of the heart was a worthless peon who believed he could take a Fallen on in combat. While his powers may have been depleted he was not weak in the slightest. But the heart. The Fallen found himself wondering if the more powerful demon hearts had a more potent taste. As he swallowed the infernal tissue, he could feel the strength enter his limbs. It wasn't much strength, much like itch in his veins, and soon the feeling was gone. But the memory of the feeling was still there and it felt good.
Greedily, he finished the heart in mere seconds, desperately searching for the same itch, trying to wring every last ounce of strength out of the petty little organ. The only thing that remained was the blood smeared on his lips and his clothes. There were nothing else to be gained from it, and it made the Fallen irritated. He needed more hearts. He needed power, he needed the strength. He gave his sword a hard jerk, expelling the blood that still lingered on his blade, and left. Searching for more hearts to devour to satiate his own greedy heart.
After wandering what felt like hours without a single other demon in sight, the Fallen was becoming agitated. Hell was supposed to be crawling with evil men and terrible demons and the only one he had met was that one unfortunate to have his head separated from his body. His eyelids were beginning to drop, and his now clean lips (Some inherent infernal magic apparently) was set in a deep scowl. The fact that he had managed to be caught in a forsaken sandstorm didn't help matters. The Fallen's eyes drifted up, and noticed that the dusty clouds had shifted enough for him to catch a glimpse of the sun. A blood red thing just hanging in the sky. It was... Intoxicating, and to the Fallen angel, the most beautiful thing in this cesspool of Hell. He didn't see the buildings in the near distance. But he did manage to find the ground.
Suddenly, the Fallen went from looking to the sky and blood sun, to the dusty ground in seconds. He pulled his face out of the sand, his eyebrows furrowed in irritation. He had tripped on something. He rolled over and looked to his feet. It was a... Backpack? What was a backpack doing in the middle of nowhere? Curiosity took hold, much like her did the bag. It was still partially open and inside he could see scraps of iron and clothing in the bag. He wondered who would have left it. Either way, it was of some value, for it was in a backpack. The Fallen fiddled with the zipper himself, and zipped it completely. He may need to trade it for something later down the line. He slipped it on his back, he heard a piercing scream. A scream that only meant one thing.
A demon.
A wicked grin curled his lips. Another heart. His pace quickened and his sword rested on his shoulder, hunting for the owner of the screech. It was near the cluster of houses he had glanced over earlier. As he approached the house, the owner seemed to all but had disappeared. The fallen stopped and surveyed the area in front of him as the dust cloud began to settle. Nothing but houses. He didn't even hear anything. At least not at first.
Another screech pierced the infernal air, and this time it was closer... Too close. The Fallen's wings went taut and flapped, sending the man forward and out of the sharp talons of the demon. Then, one wing went stiff as the other flapped, bringing the fallen about face. Finally, the Fallen had a good view of his prey. And what a view it was. A large creature, almost humanoid in nature. Barring the impressive amounts of sharp objects studding it, anyway. It almost made the Fallen's black blade look silly in comparison.
He sighed, this wasn't going to be as easy as the last demon he fought.. But the creature's delicious heart ought to make up for that. He grinned and licked his lips in anticipation. The Fallen angled his blade at the beast and awaited it's next move.
He didn't have to wait long, as the Raker lunged, all of it's sharp talons and blades looking to pincushion the former angel. His eyes widened in surprise at the sudden intensity and angled his blade to guard against some of the blades, and used what little infernal magic he had to throw up a black shield in front of him. While the blades did not penetrate, the force was still there and viciously threw the Fallen backward and through a nearby house. The weak wall collapsed under his weight and he didn't stop until he was in what was once the living room.
His head was spinning, but he got to his feet anyway and started forward. That was when he noticed he wasn't alone in the house. Others were there too, in various stages of distrust. He even saw a gun being pointed at another winged being. But these were not his prey. He was outside. The Fallen strode forward and said, "Do not interfere," in a low melodic, almost musical and foreboding voice, "For it's bleeding heart is mine."
With that, he strode out of the house in the same hole he had entered in and faced off with the Raker. His wings began to beat, cleaning the dust off of himself as he approached the infernal being. His sword was pointing menacingly at the beast, and his other hand was enveloped in a black flame. He said only one word to the being before they charged each other.
"Come."
"You, consort of the dark one."
"You flatter me, dear thing."
Unless the banker whose life she drained the previous week counted as a "dark one" (he did have a remarkable mass of stubble on his jaw, come to think of it), she was sure this... mummy man was mistaking her for a creature of higher importance. What a silly, flighty little creature, storming the place with glinting weapons and a terribly unsociable attitude. The response from her was a low mutter--potentially unheard, as she had turned her nose again into her arms. It seemed as if she would remain stagnant then, and she very well may have, had there not been one more intruder to her temporary domain.
"Safe passage?" he had coughed.
Noise, noise, NOISE. How very irritating. The hungriest of demons must have been heavily sick in the nostrils to let all these lost morsels wander into this far. "Four is such a crowd... but I am nothing, I suppose, if not an entertainer."
True to her word, Maya slipped from her haughty spot above their heads, as the mummy had demanded. Had she not already been identified as a demonic temptress, the silent landing would likely have betrayed her. The faint smell of blood perked her interest, and she preened as she searched carefully for the source, scooping what must have been buckets of hair over her shoulders. While she did, she noted one in their company was equipped with funny instruments on his back... ah. One of those ones formerly from the upper-upper world. Nonetheless, she situated herself nearest to Mister Safe Passage, oooh, that was a double entendre of a sort, wasn't it? perhaps with hopes to leap onto him for a piggyback out of the situation that, in all probability, could turn very sour, very fast.
Which was good, because the spot on which she stood for just a moment was victim to the grinding from the buttocks of yet another visitor, barreling backwards through the walls and departing just as quickly.
... She puckered her lips a little, then continued speaking as if she had no reason to cease: "Though that one--" she paused to look directly, demurely at the Marked Man; sparing what would have been a gentle smile, were it between cheeks better speckled with a living woman's blush-- "will draw even more of a less friendly ilk if he doesn't see to that wound on his chest. Wouldn't you, love?"
There is at least one benefit to being a regular in hell's maws; one tends to get quite used to surprises.
"You flatter me, dear thing."
Unless the banker whose life she drained the previous week counted as a "dark one" (he did have a remarkable mass of stubble on his jaw, come to think of it), she was sure this... mummy man was mistaking her for a creature of higher importance. What a silly, flighty little creature, storming the place with glinting weapons and a terribly unsociable attitude. The response from her was a low mutter--potentially unheard, as she had turned her nose again into her arms. It seemed as if she would remain stagnant then, and she very well may have, had there not been one more intruder to her temporary domain.
"Safe passage?" he had coughed.
Noise, noise, NOISE. How very irritating. The hungriest of demons must have been heavily sick in the nostrils to let all these lost morsels wander into this far. "Four is such a crowd... but I am nothing, I suppose, if not an entertainer."
True to her word, Maya slipped from her haughty spot above their heads, as the mummy had demanded. Had she not already been identified as a demonic temptress, the silent landing would likely have betrayed her. The faint smell of blood perked her interest, and she preened as she searched carefully for the source, scooping what must have been buckets of hair over her shoulders. While she did, she noted one in their company was equipped with funny instruments on his back... ah. One of those ones formerly from the upper-upper world. Nonetheless, she situated herself nearest to Mister Safe Passage, oooh, that was a double entendre of a sort, wasn't it? perhaps with hopes to leap onto him for a piggyback out of the situation that, in all probability, could turn very sour, very fast.
Which was good, because the spot on which she stood for just a moment was victim to the grinding from the buttocks of yet another visitor, barreling backwards through the walls and departing just as quickly.
... She puckered her lips a little, then continued speaking as if she had no reason to cease: "Though that one--" she paused to look directly, demurely at the Marked Man; sparing what would have been a gentle smile, were it between cheeks better speckled with a living woman's blush-- "will draw even more of a less friendly ilk if he doesn't see to that wound on his chest. Wouldn't you, love?"
There is at least one benefit to being a regular in hell's maws; one tends to get quite used to surprises.
He had to admit, although "unpleasant" and "confusing" were both adjectives that had applied to his existence since his arrival, one adjective that Ezra could not apply to this wretched place was "boring." He'd never been a man for entertainment accompanied by the word "thrill," unless the word "cheap" had been scrawled in front of it, but that was exactly what he was getting here. Why, in the last five minutes, he'd gone from perfectly obscure and grateful about it (a thought that had come a trifle too soon) to surrounded by possible foes. Stumbling into one had been bad enough--the two that had fallen into his lap since his entrance into the shack were far too much, and Ezra could not believe his luck.
He was getting a feel for what had and had not ever been human, though, and that was giving him some measure of confidence. Although the woman's gaunt features and taut, sallow skin betrayed her, the former moneylender was surprised to find that he was quite sure the newcomer was a demon as well. Something about the way he held himself, hunched and guarded, like a bird...it didn't feel human, and Ezra was well aware that it was safer to assume he wasn't.
And then the madman had drawn a pistol to point at the demon who'd entered, and the woman had attempted to banter with him, and there was still a knife at his throat, all things which did not, as far as Ezra was concerned, lend to a pleasant and peaceful day in Hell.
As if that hadn't been enough, shortly thereafter, the wall behind him caved in. Oh, happy day!
Had Ezra commanded half the sense as a dead man that he had in life, he might have used the tumbling wall as a distraction to remove himself from the situation. Trapped between a mad man, one known demon, one prospective demon, and a battle between a winged beast and a bladed ball of death, escape would have been the best course of action. He had not, however, gotten a feel for just how this "sense" thing worked here in Hell, and making himself easy pray for the...thing engaged in combat outside did not exactly sound like the hallmark of keen survival instinct.
Had Ezra commanded less than half the glands controlling his bodily functions, he might have been a much less fortunate individual altogether. Warm, for a moment, but certainly not a scent for sore noses. He was glad this wasn't the case.
Hysterically, he wondered if it might have meant a demon could not cross the front of his lower half, remembering what the madman had done earlier. He clutched the switchblade in his pocket as though it was a safety blanket, his thumb on the mechanism in case it became prudent to use it. Not for the first time, he found himself spitting curses under his breath; how had he ended up here? This wasn't fair. What had he done to deserve this?
(Assuming, he supposed, that the church choir boy in the tenth grade didn't count. He didn't think that warranted having one's heart ripped out and eaten by monsters that, when they deigned, wore human faces.)
But he tried his best to look composed, doing a decent job. "I think," he said quietly, his face stony white, "that your little magic trick on the door may be somewhat moot." This might have been a smooth comment, had his voice not broken in the middle. Oh God. He was going to die here, again, in the Sandlot, surrounded by a harlot, a madman, and--whatever the man...thing...at his side was.
It cannot be said that the common Raker is most cowardly of beasts known to demonkind, if only because Hell is full to the brim with cowards, making that title something of a weighty contest. However, the Raker now face to face with the Fallen angel was especially ineligible for the title, being of a proud and healthy make. It had not been the firstborn son of its clan, but it had been stronger when it came to the Sandlot than the child its mother sought to raise. For one silent second, the creature lowered its revoltingly stretched torso low to the ground, tightly shut eyes pointed up at the former angel, drinking him in.
There was pain in this one, as there was in any angel freshly Felled, although this was the first the Raker had encountered. He drank in the sensation, a burning emptiness like no pain any creature could inflict--physically, anyway. He felt it, and tasted it, and breathed it, and finally, consumed it, allowing it to wash over the darkest places of his heart before stowing it away for later use. Or present use. Perhaps the angel would like a taste of home before he died.
The flying creature before him issued just one warning. "Come."
The ensuing shriek rattled the paper-thin tops of settled glass panes. Not far, he could hear the pained shudder of new blood. A damned soul--the Raker tasted the pain that washed over him, and shivered in delight. That would flavor his attack on the angel nicely.
The standoff could not last forever, though, and the fresh blood a ways off smelled delicious. The Raker had never tasted an angel's heart before, either; perhaps today would be full of pleasant surprises. With a concerted effort, he dredged up the pain that he'd swallowed a moment before, and transferred it to the forefront of the angel's mind--the pain of a Fall.
Confident that would be enough to slow his opponent, he lunged.
He was getting a feel for what had and had not ever been human, though, and that was giving him some measure of confidence. Although the woman's gaunt features and taut, sallow skin betrayed her, the former moneylender was surprised to find that he was quite sure the newcomer was a demon as well. Something about the way he held himself, hunched and guarded, like a bird...it didn't feel human, and Ezra was well aware that it was safer to assume he wasn't.
And then the madman had drawn a pistol to point at the demon who'd entered, and the woman had attempted to banter with him, and there was still a knife at his throat, all things which did not, as far as Ezra was concerned, lend to a pleasant and peaceful day in Hell.
As if that hadn't been enough, shortly thereafter, the wall behind him caved in. Oh, happy day!
Had Ezra commanded half the sense as a dead man that he had in life, he might have used the tumbling wall as a distraction to remove himself from the situation. Trapped between a mad man, one known demon, one prospective demon, and a battle between a winged beast and a bladed ball of death, escape would have been the best course of action. He had not, however, gotten a feel for just how this "sense" thing worked here in Hell, and making himself easy pray for the...thing engaged in combat outside did not exactly sound like the hallmark of keen survival instinct.
Had Ezra commanded less than half the glands controlling his bodily functions, he might have been a much less fortunate individual altogether. Warm, for a moment, but certainly not a scent for sore noses. He was glad this wasn't the case.
Hysterically, he wondered if it might have meant a demon could not cross the front of his lower half, remembering what the madman had done earlier. He clutched the switchblade in his pocket as though it was a safety blanket, his thumb on the mechanism in case it became prudent to use it. Not for the first time, he found himself spitting curses under his breath; how had he ended up here? This wasn't fair. What had he done to deserve this?
(Assuming, he supposed, that the church choir boy in the tenth grade didn't count. He didn't think that warranted having one's heart ripped out and eaten by monsters that, when they deigned, wore human faces.)
But he tried his best to look composed, doing a decent job. "I think," he said quietly, his face stony white, "that your little magic trick on the door may be somewhat moot." This might have been a smooth comment, had his voice not broken in the middle. Oh God. He was going to die here, again, in the Sandlot, surrounded by a harlot, a madman, and--whatever the man...thing...at his side was.
It cannot be said that the common Raker is most cowardly of beasts known to demonkind, if only because Hell is full to the brim with cowards, making that title something of a weighty contest. However, the Raker now face to face with the Fallen angel was especially ineligible for the title, being of a proud and healthy make. It had not been the firstborn son of its clan, but it had been stronger when it came to the Sandlot than the child its mother sought to raise. For one silent second, the creature lowered its revoltingly stretched torso low to the ground, tightly shut eyes pointed up at the former angel, drinking him in.
There was pain in this one, as there was in any angel freshly Felled, although this was the first the Raker had encountered. He drank in the sensation, a burning emptiness like no pain any creature could inflict--physically, anyway. He felt it, and tasted it, and breathed it, and finally, consumed it, allowing it to wash over the darkest places of his heart before stowing it away for later use. Or present use. Perhaps the angel would like a taste of home before he died.
The flying creature before him issued just one warning. "Come."
The ensuing shriek rattled the paper-thin tops of settled glass panes. Not far, he could hear the pained shudder of new blood. A damned soul--the Raker tasted the pain that washed over him, and shivered in delight. That would flavor his attack on the angel nicely.
The standoff could not last forever, though, and the fresh blood a ways off smelled delicious. The Raker had never tasted an angel's heart before, either; perhaps today would be full of pleasant surprises. With a concerted effort, he dredged up the pain that he'd swallowed a moment before, and transferred it to the forefront of the angel's mind--the pain of a Fall.
Confident that would be enough to slow his opponent, he lunged.
♪♪
How delightful it was to be here. If only he could have spent the first fifty years in this state of contented mediocrity. Hell housed no assholes; citing the hunters would be no more valid than citing predators to prey. Hell gave him a home, a rusted Fiat, and a daily routine. He had the pleasure of penning "Yes, sir, I ate the most divine heart today" in a wifely, unironic fashion while dining on said prize, except when the life fluid of the organ stained his tie and trousers, then it was not so pleasurable anymore.
Hell was not quite itself, at least compared to the old days, when he would have the fortune to spin a Kapitány Anni record in the offices of Ördög, trudge to the overrealm in time for coffee at dawn, and lie straight-faced to the younger souls like a doctor with a syringe in one hand, hard candy in the other. To the patient he might have said, Indeed, child, your insides are being devoured by cancer; it has taken the form of maggots; enjoy their company while you are dead; the others of your kind do not speak, only wail and wail as maudlin as Greek rebetika without half the charm. Here's a lollipop.
It was odd having those maggots grow bored with his innards and make headway for his brain and a spot of fun in the cerebral, and odder still were the ghosts flitting in and out of his vision, lonely things in the quiet neighborhood that incited curiosity and death.
Rising today does not involve pulling muscles into proper form, but the repetition of up, up, up from the tiled floor, and recalling how laughable the idea of rest was a mere seventy-two hours ago, and how much he yearns for it now. There is no dawn, only sun. The mouth forms vowels but speaks no words, and it shuts tight in embarrassment at the risk of sounding like a Neanderthal. Communication is reserved for letters by ink. ... The script is hard to read from behind dusted spectacles. A so-called immortal disregards sleep, and the body collapses with a vengeance. He pushes it upright onto unsteady feet, slips them into the boots, perfects the straps and tucks in the once-starched pants. It is hard, so hard. The house has remnants of domestic life strewn about it: perhaps he can make bloodied coffee as he catches a glimpse of himself in broken mirrors, sweep with hairless brooms and spin crooners on the gramophone. And there is a view—a vast expanse of red suburbia nestled within dunes and foothills, wish you were here, here at the nuclear fallout. An interval passes where he considers why the facade, like worn loafers, needs this level of polish when he presents it to no one. This immortal, this Tibor, has an answer. Did the demons linger before their prey when it well dressed, as if to admire the choice of cuff before the kill, to taste importance and dignity like rare spices? Of course not—a fine silk shirt, however flattering, on a damned soul did little to slow the hunter in its pursuit. From his post inside the decrepit shelter, he saw the heart ripped from its confines, caught light in the air against the glint of fangs. The struggle and proceeding scream quirked his brow with interest. Greater a mystery was why he bothered to contemplate the wardrobe of the dead fellow.
How strange it was to observe the beast, a mostly human ape, significantly small, fit for the front cover of Nat Geo. Large hands couldn't possibly cut into its meal with knife and fork. Claws sufficed. An eager maw of Moloch opened, closed, revealed a reptilian tongue to lick its wounds, of which there were many. A third eye protruded from the back of its neck, and spines ran the length of its back. He thought of how dire it would be to trip over it as it slept.
The organ was gone in... he wouldn't call them seconds, but there were seven of them. He counted by personal heart beat.
Stepping outside to greet it, he meekly raised an arm against the whipping winds, the door hinge rattling behind him. Soles on the porch announced his presence, to which the demon murmured a guttural hello and swung round as if it had been caught in the act. Tibor, voyeur of creatures, approached it with haste. Such recklessness was seldom his forte, but infernal magic was steady at work; any sense of danger from the injured beast was thwarted as it charged forward, met the unseen boundary, fell back to shriek as its flesh was singed.
From there, it was a matter of chase across the sand—or, rather, a calming stroll through the underworld. No use in sprinting after the mark when its legs were giving out. Thirty, forty paces later, his hand found its throat, the knife its jugular. Meticulous work by blade, paused by the occasional glance around him, eventually granted him the reward. Dull satisfaction came briefly. With the body dragged away, he ate unflinchingly, straying away from the cluster of houses to scrounge, to muck about.
Somewhere down the trail, he met a peculiar corpse with peculiar scars. They caused his expression to alter for the first time that day. Perhaps he should consider moving. Hell has no leases, just landlords.
At home, empty-handed, he took a rag to the jalopy parked askew from the foundation; he set oven knobs back into place, knowing they were useless; he renewed the infernal barrier; he wished he could water the charred plants on the porch; he noted the state of the roof, cracked, but stable; he looked over his shoulder a tad too frequently for comfort; he almost ventured to greet the new faces, but decided against it. Instead, he concluded the letter to his employer—"Yes, sir, I had the most divine heart today; fourth is the charm"–and tossed it into the air, where it then transformed into a crow and flew, hopefully, to Dis, because that is how logic works when your occupation is the devil's bitch.
Tibor, at the very least, could say he wrote with love.
Sok szeretettel,
Kozmasék
How delightful it was to be here. If only he could have spent the first fifty years in this state of contented mediocrity. Hell housed no assholes; citing the hunters would be no more valid than citing predators to prey. Hell gave him a home, a rusted Fiat, and a daily routine. He had the pleasure of penning "Yes, sir, I ate the most divine heart today" in a wifely, unironic fashion while dining on said prize, except when the life fluid of the organ stained his tie and trousers, then it was not so pleasurable anymore.
Hell was not quite itself, at least compared to the old days, when he would have the fortune to spin a Kapitány Anni record in the offices of Ördög, trudge to the overrealm in time for coffee at dawn, and lie straight-faced to the younger souls like a doctor with a syringe in one hand, hard candy in the other. To the patient he might have said, Indeed, child, your insides are being devoured by cancer; it has taken the form of maggots; enjoy their company while you are dead; the others of your kind do not speak, only wail and wail as maudlin as Greek rebetika without half the charm. Here's a lollipop.
It was odd having those maggots grow bored with his innards and make headway for his brain and a spot of fun in the cerebral, and odder still were the ghosts flitting in and out of his vision, lonely things in the quiet neighborhood that incited curiosity and death.
Rising today does not involve pulling muscles into proper form, but the repetition of up, up, up from the tiled floor, and recalling how laughable the idea of rest was a mere seventy-two hours ago, and how much he yearns for it now. There is no dawn, only sun. The mouth forms vowels but speaks no words, and it shuts tight in embarrassment at the risk of sounding like a Neanderthal. Communication is reserved for letters by ink. ... The script is hard to read from behind dusted spectacles. A so-called immortal disregards sleep, and the body collapses with a vengeance. He pushes it upright onto unsteady feet, slips them into the boots, perfects the straps and tucks in the once-starched pants. It is hard, so hard. The house has remnants of domestic life strewn about it: perhaps he can make bloodied coffee as he catches a glimpse of himself in broken mirrors, sweep with hairless brooms and spin crooners on the gramophone. And there is a view—a vast expanse of red suburbia nestled within dunes and foothills, wish you were here, here at the nuclear fallout. An interval passes where he considers why the facade, like worn loafers, needs this level of polish when he presents it to no one. This immortal, this Tibor, has an answer. Did the demons linger before their prey when it well dressed, as if to admire the choice of cuff before the kill, to taste importance and dignity like rare spices? Of course not—a fine silk shirt, however flattering, on a damned soul did little to slow the hunter in its pursuit. From his post inside the decrepit shelter, he saw the heart ripped from its confines, caught light in the air against the glint of fangs. The struggle and proceeding scream quirked his brow with interest. Greater a mystery was why he bothered to contemplate the wardrobe of the dead fellow.
How strange it was to observe the beast, a mostly human ape, significantly small, fit for the front cover of Nat Geo. Large hands couldn't possibly cut into its meal with knife and fork. Claws sufficed. An eager maw of Moloch opened, closed, revealed a reptilian tongue to lick its wounds, of which there were many. A third eye protruded from the back of its neck, and spines ran the length of its back. He thought of how dire it would be to trip over it as it slept.
The organ was gone in... he wouldn't call them seconds, but there were seven of them. He counted by personal heart beat.
Stepping outside to greet it, he meekly raised an arm against the whipping winds, the door hinge rattling behind him. Soles on the porch announced his presence, to which the demon murmured a guttural hello and swung round as if it had been caught in the act. Tibor, voyeur of creatures, approached it with haste. Such recklessness was seldom his forte, but infernal magic was steady at work; any sense of danger from the injured beast was thwarted as it charged forward, met the unseen boundary, fell back to shriek as its flesh was singed.
From there, it was a matter of chase across the sand—or, rather, a calming stroll through the underworld. No use in sprinting after the mark when its legs were giving out. Thirty, forty paces later, his hand found its throat, the knife its jugular. Meticulous work by blade, paused by the occasional glance around him, eventually granted him the reward. Dull satisfaction came briefly. With the body dragged away, he ate unflinchingly, straying away from the cluster of houses to scrounge, to muck about.
Somewhere down the trail, he met a peculiar corpse with peculiar scars. They caused his expression to alter for the first time that day. Perhaps he should consider moving. Hell has no leases, just landlords.
At home, empty-handed, he took a rag to the jalopy parked askew from the foundation; he set oven knobs back into place, knowing they were useless; he renewed the infernal barrier; he wished he could water the charred plants on the porch; he noted the state of the roof, cracked, but stable; he looked over his shoulder a tad too frequently for comfort; he almost ventured to greet the new faces, but decided against it. Instead, he concluded the letter to his employer—"Yes, sir, I had the most divine heart today; fourth is the charm"–and tossed it into the air, where it then transformed into a crow and flew, hopefully, to Dis, because that is how logic works when your occupation is the devil's bitch.
Tibor, at the very least, could say he wrote with love.
Sok szeretettel,
Kozmasék
The pressure-cooker of a shack was rapidly coming to a head. No sooner had the Marked Man loosed his kukri than the wall next to it came crashing inward in a whirlwind of dust and bodies. Another Fallen was in the room for a split second, then gone again. Outside was a Raker; no doubt the same one that had followed the Marked Man across the dunes. He supposed he should be grateful for the distraction. He wasn't; at best the beast would be distracted only for a moment before it retreated, tried to run from this new combatant, possibly its superior in this realm.
The Marked Man realized, with sudden certainty, that if he wanted to continue his meager existence it was time to go. He cast his eyes at the succubus, squinting, then very slowly dropped the machete pointed at the Gregori. He sidestepped to the doorframe and retrieved his kukri, which had been jarred loose when the Fallen smashed through the wall nearby. "Although I am loath to admit it," he intoned, sheathing both of the kukri on his back and lowering the pistol to his side, "the bitch is correct. If I remain here with this wound, I will only draw more attention."
He looked suddenly at the newcomer to the realm, Ezra. He was green enough that the dust hadn't even had time to settle into his funeral garb yet. A few moments of scrutiny passed, then: "I am going." Stepping towards the front doorframe, the Marked Man withdrew from his medicine pouch a small bundle of wormwood and a slightly larger one of basil leaves. He selected a few leaves of each, wrapping the small bundle in a rag and jamming it into a censer he produced from another pocket. Carefully poking his head outside, he searched for another building. The amount of herbs in the censer would be sufficient protection for a matter of minutes - two, perhaps three if he was incredibly quick and/or lucky - but past that he would be stranded in the open Sandlot, with an angry Raker nearby.
Hopefully he wouldn't have to deal with that situation.
The sounds of battle out back were growing more fierce, and the man feared if he waited any longer. He pointed out the window and then selected the building closest to the one his finger stopped upon. He threw a glance over his shoulder, straight at Ezra, and then at the others. A quick, jagged edge of pain shot down his chest wound, focusing him. "I will not remain any longer. Accompany me if you wish."
A lighter was raised, then, and the censer started to smoke, smelling of burning herbs. Twirling the censer before him like a medieval flail, the Marked Man took off at a diligent pace down the road, his head low, the smoke engulfing him. He said nothing, but his mind reeled with chants and silent prayers to whomever was listening that his journey, however short, would end at his preferred destination.
The Marked Man realized, with sudden certainty, that if he wanted to continue his meager existence it was time to go. He cast his eyes at the succubus, squinting, then very slowly dropped the machete pointed at the Gregori. He sidestepped to the doorframe and retrieved his kukri, which had been jarred loose when the Fallen smashed through the wall nearby. "Although I am loath to admit it," he intoned, sheathing both of the kukri on his back and lowering the pistol to his side, "the bitch is correct. If I remain here with this wound, I will only draw more attention."
He looked suddenly at the newcomer to the realm, Ezra. He was green enough that the dust hadn't even had time to settle into his funeral garb yet. A few moments of scrutiny passed, then: "I am going." Stepping towards the front doorframe, the Marked Man withdrew from his medicine pouch a small bundle of wormwood and a slightly larger one of basil leaves. He selected a few leaves of each, wrapping the small bundle in a rag and jamming it into a censer he produced from another pocket. Carefully poking his head outside, he searched for another building. The amount of herbs in the censer would be sufficient protection for a matter of minutes - two, perhaps three if he was incredibly quick and/or lucky - but past that he would be stranded in the open Sandlot, with an angry Raker nearby.
Hopefully he wouldn't have to deal with that situation.
The sounds of battle out back were growing more fierce, and the man feared if he waited any longer. He pointed out the window and then selected the building closest to the one his finger stopped upon. He threw a glance over his shoulder, straight at Ezra, and then at the others. A quick, jagged edge of pain shot down his chest wound, focusing him. "I will not remain any longer. Accompany me if you wish."
A lighter was raised, then, and the censer started to smoke, smelling of burning herbs. Twirling the censer before him like a medieval flail, the Marked Man took off at a diligent pace down the road, his head low, the smoke engulfing him. He said nothing, but his mind reeled with chants and silent prayers to whomever was listening that his journey, however short, would end at his preferred destination.
"Hmp!" was the noise emitted from her pursed lips--something of a baby chuckle. She did love it when she was right. She may have even looked smug, were she not busying herself with the search for an escape route; far from the one with the bandages, if possible. He seemed like one of those with a most unkind disposition, sharp of tongue and with matching weaponry in hand, and she would not test her luck with him today.
"I am going," he'd been saying, with a sidelong glance toward one of the others.
"Good. And while I doubt you men would be interested in any safe haven I have to offer...." Maya's words trailed into a whisper as an increasing amount of white grew around her red pupils. Oh, there certainly was a scowl to grace her features, only furthered when she caught sight of the Marked Man reaching for his medicine pouch. She was a different creature then--reeling and arching forward at the torso, pretty face crumpling like paper as she bared her teeth. Her parting words consisted of a loud, offended hiss. Though succubus fled the shack (which was drastically unfair because she was there first), the vile... oddly familiar smell managed to catch up to her. Even a small whiff of it had her nails clutching her stomach and stumbling slightly. Armed or not, that man deserved to have his throat split into two for such an act. Would a warning have been beyond his power?
She stopped only briefly to rest and observe her surroundings, to make sure she was not being followed, and not walking into a pit of rakers. Maya knew the area, luckily, and chose less heavily trafficked roads, narrow and bristling with brambles long dead. She held back heaving breaths and slouching postures, but moved slowly as a means of minor recuperation. While she did not want any demon noting her moment of weakness and barreling on over, she did not want to exhaust herself into inanimation. Her spectacled, platonic love have his one single feeling crushed. Well, him and those mortals she's yet to suck dry.
"I am going," he'd been saying, with a sidelong glance toward one of the others.
"Good. And while I doubt you men would be interested in any safe haven I have to offer...." Maya's words trailed into a whisper as an increasing amount of white grew around her red pupils. Oh, there certainly was a scowl to grace her features, only furthered when she caught sight of the Marked Man reaching for his medicine pouch. She was a different creature then--reeling and arching forward at the torso, pretty face crumpling like paper as she bared her teeth. Her parting words consisted of a loud, offended hiss. Though succubus fled the shack (which was drastically unfair because she was there first), the vile... oddly familiar smell managed to catch up to her. Even a small whiff of it had her nails clutching her stomach and stumbling slightly. Armed or not, that man deserved to have his throat split into two for such an act. Would a warning have been beyond his power?
She stopped only briefly to rest and observe her surroundings, to make sure she was not being followed, and not walking into a pit of rakers. Maya knew the area, luckily, and chose less heavily trafficked roads, narrow and bristling with brambles long dead. She held back heaving breaths and slouching postures, but moved slowly as a means of minor recuperation. While she did not want any demon noting her moment of weakness and barreling on over, she did not want to exhaust herself into inanimation. Her spectacled, platonic love have his one single feeling crushed. Well, him and those mortals she's yet to suck dry.
- 16 posts here • Page 1 of 1
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View All » Add Character » 16 Characters to follow in this universe
Newest
Skel
"You can call me 'His Highness' to my face, you know." (Wip in that I'm LACKING PICTURES)
Ephraim
Rambling Dustpile
The Marked Man
"Mine is the hand of judgement. Stand aside or be cut down."
Nasir
A somewhat jumpy Raker. (Image forthcoming; enjoy this nice black square until one is found.)
Tibor Kozmasek
"Isten, let me be."
Maya
"Touch me."
Legion Gerasene
World-weary (but classy) former General of the Satanic forces. After an unfortunate encounter with the Son of God (Mark 5:1-17) Legion found himself dishonored, disillusioned, and without a job. What's an ex-demon to do?
Ezra Morrow
A former moneylender who isn't quite sure how he wound up here (though it should be a no brainer.)
Trending
Legion Gerasene
World-weary (but classy) former General of the Satanic forces. After an unfortunate encounter with the Son of God (Mark 5:1-17) Legion found himself dishonored, disillusioned, and without a job. What's an ex-demon to do?
Ephraim
Rambling Dustpile
Nasir
A somewhat jumpy Raker. (Image forthcoming; enjoy this nice black square until one is found.)
Maya
"Touch me."
Tibor Kozmasek
"Isten, let me be."
Skel
"You can call me 'His Highness' to my face, you know." (Wip in that I'm LACKING PICTURES)
The Marked Man
"Mine is the hand of judgement. Stand aside or be cut down."
Ezra Morrow
A former moneylender who isn't quite sure how he wound up here (though it should be a no brainer.)
Most Followed
Nasir
A somewhat jumpy Raker. (Image forthcoming; enjoy this nice black square until one is found.)
The Marked Man
"Mine is the hand of judgement. Stand aside or be cut down."
Skel
"You can call me 'His Highness' to my face, you know." (Wip in that I'm LACKING PICTURES)
Ezra Morrow
A former moneylender who isn't quite sure how he wound up here (though it should be a no brainer.)
Ephraim
Rambling Dustpile
Legion Gerasene
World-weary (but classy) former General of the Satanic forces. After an unfortunate encounter with the Son of God (Mark 5:1-17) Legion found himself dishonored, disillusioned, and without a job. What's an ex-demon to do?
Maya
"Touch me."
Tibor Kozmasek
"Isten, let me be."
View All » Places
12 posts · 9 characters present · last post 2012-05-28 22:04:07 »
Hell ↪ The Sandlot Owner: RolePlayGateway
Where young demons duke it out.
4 posts · 4 characters present · last post 2012-04-22 19:57:09 »
A realm which seems to have an unfortunate amount of demons running around inside it. (Includes Hell -and- the Overworld, and perhaps also this realm's Heaven if it ever comes up.)
0 posts · 0 characters present · last post 1970-01-01 00:00:00 »
The Great Mountain ↪ The New City of Light Owner: RolePlayGateway
[Image Forthcoming] Sitting in the clouds that surround the peak of the mountain is the New City of Light, founded by Lucifer himself. Most of the Fallen dwell here, as well as their children, the Gregori.
0 posts · 0 characters present · last post 1970-01-01 00:00:00 »
The Great Mountain ↪ The Caves Owner: RolePlayGateway
[Image Forthcoming] The Caves contain some of the most powerful beings in Hell. These caves are inhabited almost entirely by Nightmares, who are known to leech off the dreams of sleeping demons above them.
0 posts · 0 characters present · last post 1970-01-01 00:00:00 »
Nod ↪ The Great Mountain Owner: RolePlayGateway
[Image Forthcoming] The Mountain of Nod seems to stretch up into forever, its winding stone paths only shortening for those worthy enough to continue to the top. It is here that the very highest demons of Hell tend to live.
0 posts · 0 characters present · last post 1970-01-01 00:00:00 »
The Great Mountain ↪ The Tower of Lords Owner: RolePlayGateway
[Image Forthcoming] Located at the top of the mountain, the Tower of Lords is where much of the managerial details of Hell are hammered out.
0 posts · 0 characters present · last post 1970-01-01 00:00:00 »
The Great Mountain ↪ House Viriidae Owner: RolePlayGateway
[Image Forthcoming] Adjacent to the Tower of Lords is House Viriidae, a sprawling mansion of nigh unto incalculable size. Several of the Viriidae, children of the Black Lady, inhabit this building along with the Black Lady herself.
0 posts · 0 characters present · last post 1970-01-01 00:00:00 »
Pandemonium ↪ Corporation and Quota Management Office Owner: RolePlayGateway
Affectionately referred to by no one as CQ, this is where demons go to sort out quotas, partnerships, and methods of entry. All new demons must report immediately upon emerging from the Sandlot.
0 posts · 0 characters present · last post 1970-01-01 00:00:00 »
The Wastelands ↪ Land of the Lost Owner: RolePlayGateway
[Image Forthcoming] An infinite expanse of desert, the only sane and living creatures that roam the planes of the Land of the Lost are Nightmares feeding off the deranged minds of Wanderers.
0 posts · 0 characters present · last post 1970-01-01 00:00:00 »
The Wastelands ↪ The Edge of the Wastes Owner: RolePlayGateway
[Image Forthcoming]In sight of many of the walls that surround Hell???s cities, not all is lost for those who wander into the edge of the Wasteland. This is where the majority of Shadows are born, living in small family groups crowded around the city walls.
0 posts · 0 characters present · last post 1970-01-01 00:00:00 »
Nod ↪ The City of Nod Owner: RolePlayGateway
[Image Forthcoming] Home to most Tier Six demons, the city of Nod is mostly peaceful and amicable, save when the occasional clan feud pops up. Make no mistake, however; the citizens of Nod are some of Hell???s most powerful elite.
0 posts · 0 characters present · last post 1970-01-01 00:00:00 »
Pandemonium ↪ District Three Owner: RolePlayGateway
[Image Forthcoming]The largest of the four districts and possibly the safest, District Three is populated by your average Tier Four demon.
0 posts · 0 characters present · last post 1970-01-01 00:00:00 »
The city of outcasts and turncoats. Demons who have been cast into Dis feel hunger and thirst almost constantly, and competition for food, water, shelter, and companionship are all fierce.
0 posts · 0 characters present · last post 1970-01-01 00:00:00 »
Hell ↪ Pandemonium Owner: RolePlayGateway
Considered to be the capital city of Hell, Pandemonium houses up to 80 percent of its Infernal population at any given time. Most demons will live out the majority of their lives in Pandemonium, eventually dying at the hands of one of their fellows there.
0 posts · 3 characters present · last post 1970-01-01 00:00:00 »
An Unsuspecting Realm of the Multiverse ↪ Hell Owner: RolePlayGateway
Does what it says on the tin.
0 posts · 0 characters present · last post 1970-01-01 00:00:00 »
This area of Hell doesn't look particularly Hellish at all. As a matter of fact, it seems quite pleasant, with green grasses, rolling hills, and clear, winding rivers surrounding a spiraling mountian leading to the Tower of Lords.
0 posts · 0 characters present · last post 1970-01-01 00:00:00 »
Hell ↪ The Wastelands Owner: RolePlayGateway
An expanse of desert that stretches into Eternity, the Wastelands are the final resting place of many who have tried to escape Hell's grasp, except that they aren't resting at all.
0 posts · 0 characters present · last post 1970-01-01 00:00:00 »
Pandemonium ↪ District Two Owner: RolePlayGateway
[Image Forthcoming]Somewhat safer than District One, the second district of Pandemonium also sits on the edge of the Sandlot, although there is a large wall standing between it and the Sandlot to keep younger demons out.
0 posts · 0 characters present · last post 1970-01-01 00:00:00 »
Pandemonium ↪ District One Owner: RolePlayGateway
[Image Forthcoming] This district is home to demons who have barely left the Sandlot, and is only marginally more forgiving.
0 posts · 0 characters present · last post 1970-01-01 00:00:00 »
Pandemonium ↪ District Four Owner: RolePlayGateway
[Image Forthcoming] Filled almost entirely with Tier Five demons, District Four is more like a base of operations than a true district of Pandemonium. It resembles many Overworld cities, minus all the people.
Fullscreen Chat » Create Topic » Snakes and Ladders: Tales from the Inferno: Out of Character
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Snakes and Ladders: Tales from the Inferno
1 ... 6, 7, 8by Nannyhap on Tue Feb 21, 2012 9:22 pm
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Snakes and Ladders: Tales from the Inferno
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Rejected Tales from the Inferno
by Nannyhap on Sun Mar 04, 2012 11:31 am
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Rejected Tales from the Inferno
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Snakes and Ladders: Open Character Critiques
by Nannyhap on Sun Apr 22, 2012 10:35 am
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Snakes and Ladders: Open Character Critiques
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NPC/Important Character Directory
by Nannyhap on Sun Mar 04, 2012 11:31 am
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NPC/Important Character Directory
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Character Advancement
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Character Advancement
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Subplot Discussion
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Species Directory
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