Nova's Story

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.

[ignore]

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."

"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.