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+--- Thread: Helldiver [M] (/showthread.php?tid=3936)
Helldiver [M] - Storyteller - 02-27-2016
You ever wake up in the hospital after a long night of debauchery and alcoholism? Everything is so damn quiet and peaceful, except for the damn hearbeat monitor reminding you that you're not yet dead. The first thing that hits you is the realization that you are indeed alive, followed by the cold panic of not remembering how you got there. The hole bored in your chest from a small-caliber weapon gives you a rough idea of what happened. But, the hole in your memory proves to be a pernicious source of worry, what exactly happened? So the next step, after the realization and after the panic is damage control. Who was with you? What did you do? When did it happen? Where did it happen? Why did someone plug you in the chest? The five “W”s. It feels like a police investigation... well, it probably will be.
Perhaps this analogy isn't very relatable.
Regardless, its what I imagine waking up in the Underverse feels like. At least that's how it felt to me. The realization of being in hell, followed by the panic of memory loss, and lastly damage control. My mouth tasted like ash and all I could smell was the pungent stench of sulfur. Every muscle ached and every bone felt shattered, but every heartbeat reminded me that I was painfully alive. The Empire had a nasty way of dealing with dogs that dared pull against their leash. You see, I've got an issue with authority. I know, I know, bad trait for a soldier right? The higher ups didn't like that I had a mind of my own, and this was my penance for daring to disobey them. This one way trip to hell was sponsored by the greatest minds within the Empire's fold. A special harness, designed to establish a link between Coruscant and the Underverse, and to allow relatively safe travel between the two verses. Well, it didn't work.
Timothy was a friend of mine when I was very young. Real young, like first or second grade young. We lived in a small midwest suburban town, the sleepy kind of town where everyone knew each other. We played the kind of games that little kids would. Our domain was the entire block on which we lived, crossing the street was strictly forbidden by our parents. Well one day little Timothy grew some balls and convinced me to cross the street to explore the rest of the neighborhood. We stood at the edge of the road, near the crest of a hill. This spot was a sort of sanctuary, the hill concealed the view of our houses, and subsequently the watchful eye of our parents. Our first foray into the unknown was cut short, little Timmy started to cross and tripped over his own shoelaces. He faceplanted into the asphalt and I began to laugh at the poor kid in the way that good friends laugh at each other's slight misfortunes. The bright chrome grille of a 1993 Cadillac Deville peeked over the crest of the hill and came barreling towards my downed friend. It would be ruled as an accidental homicide, the angle of the sun and hill more or less blinded the driver and Timmy's fallen frame was already impossible to see. Waking up in the Underverse is what I imagine little Timmy must've felt as his mother ran him over and his best friend laughed.
Unmitigated fucking shock.
I try not to think about Timothy, but every now and again, when I'm faced with the absurdity of existence, I remember that hot summer's day. The horrible pained expression plastered across Timmy's face as he expired in the middle of that suburban road. The panicked hysterical face of a mother who had accidentally killed her own child. Yeah, I try not to think about it, but it does remind me that death happens and it isn't fucking pretty. If you're a fan of Judeo-christian theology, then little Timmy would be smiling down upon us from his bed made of clouds. Unfortunately, not all of us are so lucky. Some of us wind up down in the pit of eternal torture, Dante Alighieri's Inferno. At least that's where I found myself after pulling against my leash and going where I wasn't supposed to go. To me it doesn't seem fair, Timothy pulled against his parent's wishes, and subsequently died for it, but he's the one that gets the pearly gates? Sounds like bullshit to me, lucky little bastard.
The most important step after panicking and realization is damage control. There isn't much to do for damage control if you wake up in the Underverse, the damage has already been done. Still, the Empire bastards let me keep my gear and weapons for this fun little vacation. Several days worth of rations and basic survival tools, along with my trusty Flak cannon and retractable spear. The earth was cracked red clay and the sky was a sea of ash and cinders. Around me pillars of red stone stretched upwards each of them covered in sore-like geysers belching smog into the atmosphere. This place was no doubt the machinations of some devil or spiteful entity. Life wasn't allowed to exist without paying a toll measured in pain and suffering.
I had yet to pay the toll for my audacity to live in the Underverse
Re: Helldiver [M] - Storyteller - 02-29-2016
In highschool we were forced to read “The Things they Carried” by Tim O’Brien. It was apparently one of the preeminent pieces of literature on the Vietnam war. At the time I saw it nothing more than another assignment, a boring assignment at that. It took almost two decades of warfare for me to realize how important the tools we soldiers carry. From the rucksack strapped to my back to the heft flak cannon carried in my arms everything that I carried was near and dear to me. Without those precious items, the essential equipment that a soldier carried, he was useless. Here in the Underverse the things that you carried defined you, they kept you alive and safe.
Now let me tell you about Dedan. The red-skinned prick was some kind of bastard mix of man, bat, and lizard. That pernicious leather-winged asshole was the sole member of my Underverse welcoming committee. His home was made within these red-rock spires, he was one of the few creatures that could inhale the caustic smog belched from their vents. A gnawing hatred for mankind burned in Dedan’s heart, and it made me an irresistible target. Fortunately the human side of the scaly demon made him arrogant and foolish. Rather than swooping down from his eagle’s nest he announced his presence.
“Human!” he shouted from high above, “up here human!”
My eyes drifted upwards, catching sight of the bat-winged demon. He sat perched upon the precipice of a red-rock pillar. Those red coals burned in his eye sockets and my every movement was tracked by those smoldering orbs. My throat filled with sand and a twinge of fear raced through my spine. Fear had no place in my heart, but the Underverse had a way of rattling even the most stalwart of men. Dedan leaned from his perch, gripping the edge of the pillar with his long wiry fingers. His flesh was covered in red-scales and two leathery wings stretched from his back.
“What is your name human?” he shouted, shuffling along the edge of the pillar.
“When asking for one’s name it’s considered polite to offer your own” I responded, taking a step forward.
Dedan hissed, revealing a forked tongue, “I don’t have to offer anything to you human.”
“Well then get lost,” I snapped.
Prison is a helluva place, honestly I recommend that everyone spends at least a year or so in a big city prison. The real seedy kind of prison where the rapists and murderers are sent. You learn to become self reliant real fucking fast in a prison like that. You learn the way of the world, only the strongest survive. Charles Darwin would be proud of that kind of prison. Needless to say I did real well in that environment, became a sort of enforcer for the kingpins. If you get sent to prison the first thing you gotta do is pick a fight, don’t matter if you’re a fighter or not, you have to pick a fight. It shows people that you aren’t scared, it shows ‘em that you’ll scrap with anyone that so much as looks at you funny.
Fight or die, there isn’t a third option.
So that’s what I was going for with old Dedan here, picking a fight with the angry cuss would hopefully announce that I was not one to be fucked with. Without another word his wings spread to their full length and he left his perch. The demon soared high into the ash-filled sky and circled overhead like a vulture waiting for carrion. Then like a diving swan his wings folded in upon themselves and he began to drop like a lawn dart. When put against a charging bull your first instinct is to dive out of the way. The way I see it, that’s when they are the most vulnerable, that’s when they let you strike at them. Poor Dedan never stood a chance, I leveled my weapon at the incoming dive-bomb and let loose a roaring blast of hot metal scraps.
The flak cannon works similarly to a shotgun, blanketing an area in metallic death. It didn’t run on ammunition, at least not the same way as a conventional firearm. Within the core of the weapon was a nano-fabricator, a very basic one. Metal is fed into the loading port and the fabricator breaks it down into smaller components. The scrap is then stored within the cannon itself and is used as the projectile, expelling a wall of hot scrap. Needless to say this weapon is ridiculously heavy and unwieldy, only a small amount of people can effectively utilize this beast of engineering. Unfortunately for Dedan, I’m one of the few actually capable of bringing the flak cannon to bare.
Dedan crumpled against the earth, broken and filled with lead. My boots smacked against the dry cracked earth as I stalked towards my fallen foe. His wounds sizzled and began to close, but his body was still too maimed to fight. With deliberate movements I flipped him onto his back and pressed the still-hot barrel against his bare chest.
“Release me human!” he hissed and thrashed.
“Quiet!” I demanded, putting pressure against his ribcage, “you’re going to answer some questions for me, and I might let you live. Got it?”
“Fine.”
“Now, let’s get introductions out of the way,” I sneered, “you can call me Cicada, what can I call you?”
“Dedan,” he growled.
RE: Helldiver [M] - Storyteller - 03-14-2016
The Underverse isn't very complicated, it's like a giant prison really. It isn't like Coruscant with their mountains of legislature and red tape, in the Underverse there is but one rule – dominate or be dominated. This was a world one could learn to live in, it was a world that I had already learned to live in before I had even been dragged to the Omniverse. Dedan told me everything, he told me of the demon lords and their subjects, the infernal hierarchy of this hellish penitentiary. Finally he spoke of Diablo, the Prime Evil, the big dick on campus. I had a certain admiration for the monster, after all everyone is a monster, just to varying measures and degrees of success. Escaping this shattered land would no doubt be through Diablo's will and his alone, if escaping was even possible.
“Will you let me go now?” Dedan hissed through his forked tongue.
“No,” I growled back.
“No?” he pushed up against the barrel of my weapon and I slammed him back into the dirt, “are you going to kill me then?!”
“No,” I responded, “ listen Dedan, and listen well, you are my property now. When I tell you to jump, you better ask 'how high'. I'm not some second-rate amateur that bumbled his way into the Underverse, I'm a dangerous man with a vicious arsenal, and trust me Dedan, I have no qualms about using it. Am I clear?”
The demon's fearsome eyes avoided my gaze, his fear was a product of my dominion over his life. Every breath was drawn simply because I had chosen not to extinguish it. Dedan was my property and he would be treated as such. One of the first things they teach you in the special forces is how to subdue someone using rope. The demon’s physiology was slightly different than a human a prehensile tail and bat wings mad the standard method’s of restraint ineffective.
“Your wings are a nuisance,” I remarked, and tied the rope tight around his torso. The still-warm barrel of the flak cannon pressed against his lower back reminded him not to struggle. This demon of hate would be my bargaining chip with the lesser lords of the Underverse. His flesh was worth little, but his subjugation meant that I was not one to be fucked with. My ticket to surviving this hellhole was wrapped tight and forced to march, directly towards the heart of the Underverse. According to Dedan, most of the denizens of the Underverse act as vassals to the hellish lords. According to Dedan, this was a coward’s way of life, not that his current situation was much different.
“You better not lower your guard human,” Dedan threatened, “the second you do I’ll eviscerate you.”
“Don’t worry, I never lower my guard.”
Everyone should play Russian roulette at least once in their life. That creeping finality of the trigger pull brings a frightful anticipation to anyone who wishes to truly live should know. That dry cotton mouth feeling that you get as the cold barrel of the revolver is pressed against your temple. Your life doesn’t matter anymore, it doesn’t have a future. Time is divided from minutes to seconds to the hollow space hidden between heartbeats. Then relief, that almost orgasmic relief as the hammer clinks against an empty chamber. A new lease on life, the kind of salvation that those born-again Christians can only pray to achieve.
Maybe that isn’t very relatable.
Then again I suppose the Underverse isn’t very relatable to the majority of the Omniverse.
At any rate, Russian roulette is how I turned my life around, how I became who I am. The first time I played was long after little Timothy’s death. Long after I had talked to therapist after therapist about the ramification of watching my best friend get flattened like a pancake. No, we played our dangerous game in Barry’s basement. Out of the three of us he was the only one to have his own place, and he was the only one with a revolver. Most people start with blanks, or with nothing at all, and play it off as a joke. We skipped that step, one round in the chamber, one trigger pull each. That’s how I earned my first stint in jail. Barry wasn’t as lucky as us, he spun the cylinder and without flinching splattered his brains across his wool couch. Real shame too, it was a damn fine couch. Nicky ratted on me in exchange for a lighter sentence, the fucking coward, he said I shot Barry. To this day it boggles my mind how Nicky could undercut Barry’s brave journey to hell by trying to pin it all on me. No matter, in a way I should thank the frightened little cunt, he’s the reason I spent so much time in prison, he’s the reason I learned how to survive down here.
“Dedan,” I crooned, “take me to the heart of the Underverse, I want to meet the lords of hell.”
“They’ll skin you alive,” he laughed, a quick nudge from my barrel forced him to start walking.
“Yea, though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death, I shall fear no evil, for I am the meanest motherfucker in the goddamned valley.”
RE: Helldiver [M] - Storyteller - 09-15-2016
It never ceases to amaze me the absolute ability mankind has to inflict suffering upon its kin. We’ve always been like that, and we most likely will remain that way until the damned heat death of the universe. Hell if you tear back the skeins of time far enough I’ll bet you find a cavemen torturing one another with sticks and rocks. With all our technological advancements and moral developments you’d think we would put such barbarism in our past. The truth is more unsettling. We only become more sophisticated in our methods. The Empire is proof of that. You would be surprised at how proficient our “peace-loving” Empire is at torturing dissidents. Mankind’s capacity for cruelty is what makes the Underverse so frightening. It is populated by what mankind fears, by what mankind has chosen to lock away until eternity. How sinister could our nightmares be? How malicious?
Dedan spoke to me of our destination. The Necropolita of Dis, he spoke of it as the only true city within the Underverse. I did not know how true that was, but I wouldn’t have been surprised either way. He took every opportunity to remind me of my coming demise. According to him the denizens of Dis did not care for humans. “Too bad” I’d tell him, I had no plans on being torn apart within the city. No, Dedan told of rumors - really more scraps than rumors, but it was the best I had - that there was indeed a way to escape the Underverse. Curry enough favor with one of the lords and they would send you topside. Easier said than done I imagined. We were still a ways out, according to him we were still in the heart of the Salt Flats. There was little imagination used to name this place, it was flat asides from large hunks of crystal poking through the crusty earth.
It was in that wretched place that we found our first real trial. Even in such harsh country life was to be found, or rather a pittance of life. Even in hell there were stray mutts looking for scraps and they found us to be rather appetizing. Their scrawny bodies were a yellow sand color, with rided protrusions of crystals along their backs. Metallic howls, that resonated with the surrounding minerals announced their presence. Dedan whimpered. The dessicated hounds bounded along the flats and formed a loose ring around us. Scavengers. Too many to count. I must admit that using Dedan as a distraction was a thought that crossed my mind. He was little more than skin and bones and liable to give the dogs indigestion, I doubted they’d be satiated with him. Dedan growled and said, “release me human, there is no sense in both of us dying.”
“I’d rather you die with me,” I told him, “besides I’ve no intention of dying here.”
It was the cruelty of mankind that saved me. During times of war we tend to create our greatest tools of suffering. The atom bomb, napalm, anthrax just to name a few. Hanging from my belt were several green orbs, the fruits of such wicked technology. Once the safety mechanism was removed and the primer activated the shell of these orbs would turn quite brittle. Stuffed to the brim with a synthetic acid, designed to chew through even the thickest of armor, these little baseballs packed a helluva punch. Referred to as “orc’s breath” by the poor plods in Camelot that often found themselves on the receiving end of these grenades. Two of these lovely contraptions served to thin out the horde. Nothing deserved to be pelted with these things. I caught three mutts with the first one and four with the other; their ragged bodies twisted and writhed as the acid gnawed through them. Within seconds all that remained of those unfortunate beasts were puddles of agony and fur.
They were either too ravenous or simply too stupid to know when to retreat. Either way there was still a handle that I had to deal with. They yipped and snarled and began to close their circle. Baying fangs snipped at my back and when I turned to deal with them they retreated. I fired a carpet of flak towards the nearest one. The metal shards tore it into a smattering of bloody chunks. One took hold of Dedan’s leg and he howled and screamed for help. With a satisfying snap I unsheathed my retractable spear. I skewered the poor beast and pulled it from Dedan’s flesh, it managed to keep a mouthful. The battle was a slog of attrition and careful shot placement. For every one that was slain another seemed to take its place. When all was said and done we were left with a sizeable pile of dead dog and several bite marks. Dedan caught the worst of it, as I used him as a shield against them. It was only logical, after all his infernal flesh regenerated much faster than mine.
RE: Helldiver [M] - Storyteller - 10-19-2016
The Necrolopita of Dis was less of a city and more a gnarled collection of meat, metal, and anguish. Malformed skyscrapers, made from what appeared to be skin stretched over steel beams, scratched at burgundy clouds overhead. It looked like a butcher shop and an automobile factory had slipped through the nth dimension -- to be fair that analogy probably wasn’t too far off. Breathing deep one would find that the air was mixed with gasoline and hot grease. You’d get used to it. Well, that’s not entirely true. You more or less would forget about it when faced with the other unmitigated horrors. Did I forget to mention the sounds? Oh god the absolute noise. Like cats thrown against a metal ceiling fan. In other words this place was an assault on every sense; and, perhaps the most terrifying aspect of it all, you did get used to it. You acclimated. But perhaps most unsettling of all was the denizens of this twisted city. Awkward abominations and guttural fiends roamed the streets of Dis. Most of them looked like Satan’s Mr. Potato Head, just a jumbled mess of random parts slapped together on varying frames. I looked like a white boy from the suburbs of Rhode Island thrust into Compton, in other words I looked very much out of place and everyone knew it.
Now I want you to hear me out before I tell you this next part. I was tired, plain and simple as that. We had been walking for Omni knows how long. That and the heat combined with the constant need for paranoia impaired my judgement. So when tell you this next part, I want you to know that I was not in a perfect state of mind. My guard slipped and it was for this reason, above all others, that I ended up where I am today. Well, perhaps that is a bit of an exaggeration, but it certainly didn’t help anything. Dedan said that he knew a shortcut. It was supposed to cut through the heart of the city and more or less plop us on the front door of Andariel. He said that although he was but a very distant cousin of the lesser evil he would be able to grant me an audience with her. Again, please understand that I had been awake for almost eighteen hours at this point and had travelled between dimensions only to end up in hell with no ticket back. So when Dedan offered me an easy route I took it.
Needless to say things didn’t quite pan out as I had hoped. The alleyways in Dis are almost as convoluted as the city itself. Oftentimes we found ourselves coming to dead ends and circling back upon paths that we had already travelled. After wandering about for what felt like ages we came upon a strange creature. It looked like a large bullfrog, about the size of a small SUV. It had no forearms to speak of and instead sat upright on two meaty frog legs. A series of bulbous eyes, each of them in various sizes but all no bigger than a baseball, swiveled about in moist sockets on the top of its head. The thing’s gullet was large and swollen, and a faint yellow light glowed from inside. Bronze-colored warts covered the monster’s body and flecks of rusty flesh peeled upwards like a bad sunburn. On either side of the creature stood two humanoids that were cobbled together with ant, lobster, and human body parts. Dedan smiled, looked at me, and in the most vindictive voice he could muster he said, “ohhh, now you’re fucked.”
Before I could answer, or hell before I could even think of an answer, the toad monster opened its maw. From inside its belly a bubblegum colored tongue snapped towards me like a whipcord. The fleshy appendage wrapped itself around my throat like a slimy meat scarf. I raised my gun, or at least I think I did -- this part is kind of blurry and hard to remember. All I remember is the alarming sound of an electric current. My hair stood up on end like a troll doll. Nerve endings fired haphazardly, commanding my muscles to stretch and contract on their own. Now I’ve never had a seizure, but that’s what I’d imagine it would be like. To be lucid but unable to wrest control of your body from the demons dancing in your flesh. This lasted so long that I was certain that my tongue had been fried into nothing more than a spit of gristle. I could fucking taste smoke in my throat. At some point I had dropped my gun and with it my safety. There wasn’t much after that. Some voices that sounded impossibly distant. A tug on the tongue around my throat as the toad reeled me into its mouth. Then darkness.
Have you ever heard of an Aghori? Don’t worry if you haven’t, I only know about them because of a spiritual phase I had when I was locked up. At any rate the Aghori are a kind of Hindu spiritualist. And boy are they fucked up -- well I guess they’d only be considered fucked up to someone who doesn’t really understand them. They believe that their god, Shiva, is a perfect being. They also believe that their god is responsible for everything that occurs every cause and every effect is nothing more than the will of Shiva. Consequently, everything that exists must therefore be perfect. Everything. War, death, famine, and disease are all part of a sacred undivided whole, to be held with the same reverence as any other condition. They embrace the degradation and the pollution of the world. Charnel grounds are no more or less sacred than a sewer system. Something about their absolute nihilism always tugs at my heartstrings.
It makes you wonder how guys like those would handle the Omniverse. Would they perceive Omni as a being of perfection? And by extension the Underverse? This place gives you some insight into the kind of deity Omni is. Any divine being that could create -- or at best allow -- a place like this must be some kind of masochist. The worst part about all of this is that there are people that believe Omni is benevolent. Anyone who thinks of Omni as a kind-hearted god has never been to Underverse. It’s just like russian roulette, it changes your perspective; and just like russian roulette only a disappointing number of people get to experience.
RE: Helldiver [M] - Storyteller - 01-11-2017
As I’d come to learn that thing that swallowed me was known as a mantella. Not that the name mattered much to me. The insides of a mantella are akin to a pitcher plant. Smooth and spacious, coated in a slick mucus. These toad beasts were often used to escort prisoners; able to use their electrically-charged tongue to subdue all but the most resolute. Their stomach was naturally caustic, but they could be trained to only produce stomach acid on command. This made them not only effective transports, but frightening torture devices as well. And of course lucky me found himself deep in the belly of one of these fantastic creatures. They had stripped me of my weapons while I was still recovering from my dose of taser-tongue. My fleshy prison sloshed back and forth as the fat creature hobbled to its destination. Voices chattered around me, muffled by several inches of fatty meat. We traveled for what felt like hours but in reality it was only a few minutes. Just as my muscles began to cramp and my joints stiffened the mantella spit me up.
My eyes burned as they readjusted to the bright light. Without seeing, without even thinking my body clambered upwards in an attempt to stand. For my effort I was clubbed in the back of my kneecaps by what felt like a steel pipe. A calloused hand gripped the back of my neck and forced me to kneel. My eyes focused, finally adjusted to the bright light. Below me cracked red tiles stretched across the floor, remnants of a clearcoat clinging to the edges of the tiles. Large braziers stoked with roiling flames tinted the room with an ominous orange hue. Centerpiece, a throne made of metal, bone, and that familiar redrock loomed over me. Draped across the sat a devil that looked much like Dedan, but several leagues larger. On either side of the twisted throne stood guards, each of them an unsettling mix of grasshopper, man, and crustacean. In their hands, er, claws they gripped spears made from lengths of rusted metal. Dedan rattled his chains, trying in vain to shuck his coils. Towering behind us the original lobster monster kept his spear pointed at the nape of my neck. All-in-all it was a pretty shitty welcome party.
“Greetings Dedan,” the devil’s doppleganger spoke, “I see you’re still as disappointing as ever.”
Dedan did not answer. He had stopped fidgeting and instead started to stare at his feet, avoiding any possible chance of eye contact with his doppelganger. Just who the hell was this guy? Up until now my companion had been a constant source of snark and now he was reduced to more of a bitch than he was before. “Who the hell are you?” I asked and attempted to stand again. They did not stop my ascent, they didn’t have to. The doppelganger gazed upon me with equal parts disdain and apathy. He did not answer my question. Instead he rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers. With a sound similar to a bullwhip the mantella’s tongue snapped around my neck and pulled me back onto my ass. My hair stood on end and an absolute fuckton of electric current was forced through my body. Needless to say my contentious attitude was curbstomped.
“Now, as I was saying,” the doppelganger said, “you’re lucky I am merciful, Dedan, if father was still alive he’d have flayed you already, now would you kindly tell me why you’re this human’s prisoner?”
Again Dedan did not respond.
“Awh, you’ve got nothing to say?”
“What is there to say?” Dedan finally answered, “you’re going to kill me regardless.”
The devil laughed and clapped his hands together. “Do you really think I’m that cruel?” he asked. Dedan’s doppelganger left his throne and started to walk towards us. He moved with the urgency of molasses. His tail twitched and his wings shuddered. “Release him,” he said nodding towards Dedan. Without hesitation one of the crustacean sentinels shattered Dedan’s chains using its pincer. “Dear Dedan,” the doppelganger said and placed a hand on Dedan’s cheek, “dear Dedan, runt of the litter and disappointment to the family.” The hand slithered from his cheek to Dedan’s throat and squeezed. Dedan sputtered and choked. He clawed at his attacker's forearm, but the devil’s leathery hide was all but impervious to Dedan’s thrashing. “Dear Dedan, dear Dedan, not even worth the breath in his lungs, dear Dedan, unfit to be my servant, let alone my brother.” Every muscle on Dedan’s body strained and struggled, but his brother’s grip was implacable. His red skin turned purple. He gagged. He thrashed. He floundered. He fell limp. “Dead Dedan, going to meet his father.”
“Stop,” I shouted, “release him!”
Dedan’s brother sighed and turned towards me, dragging Dedan’s limp body like a ragdoll. My fleshy collar pulled tight against my throat and I struggled to stand. “Do you not know your place human?” the devil asked, “Do you not understand where you are?”
“Listen to me, and listen good shithead,” I began, my throat rumbling with anger, “Dedan is my property, and I won’t sit here while you destroy what is mine, I don’t care where we are, you will not take him from me.”
You could’ve heard a metaphorical pin drop, hell if it wasn’t for the ever present sound of distant machinery you could’ve heard a literal pin drop. A snap of the finger signaled another dose of tongue-taser and I found myself staring at the ceiling. I rolled over onto my side and took a mental inventory of my priorities. It wasn’t that I truly cared whether Dedan lived or died, but the fuckin’ arrogance of his brother flipped a trigger within my psyche. There was a thud next to me as Dedan’s limp body was cast aside like a sack of refuse. The mantella’s tongue unwrapped itself and left behind a slimy ring around my throat. In its place bony fingers clamped down and lifted me to my feet. Face-to-face with Dedan’s brother I was met with ochre eyes and the hate that burned behind them. “Such imputence, such arrogance human,” he said, taking his time to enunciate each syllable, “I suppose that is indicative of your kind, but forgive me if it still surprises me.”
“Bit me,” I choked out.
“This is not your precious Coruscant outsider, this is the Underverse, your defiant words mean little to me,” he said and squeezed tighter. A pressure began to build between my ears and my eyes started watering. “However,” his grip relaxed, “I find your claims of ownership in regards to my brother amusing, tell me your name.”
“Cicada,” I answered after a coughing fit, “and you would be?”
“Deblin Morriel, first spawn of Zaire Morriel,” he answered.
“Look buddy,” I said, “if you’re gonna kill me, just go ahead and do it, I’m not interested in playing out this whole charade.”
Deblin relinquished his grip and turned his back to me. A sudden urge to punch him in the back of the head swallowed me, but I did my best to ignore it. With his signature sense of urgency Deblin sauntered back to his throne and took a seat. He motioned towards one of his guards and the creature left the room, returning shortly with a goblet. Deblin took the cup and drank from it. This was getting a bit ridiculous. As I’d come to learn, devils have a thing for grandiose gestures to the point of absurdity. Dedan coughed and squirmed as he recovered from asphyxiation.
“Cicada, what an odd name,” Deblin noted, took a sip, and continued, “I assume you were sent here against your will?”
“Well, more or less,” I shrugged and answered.
“I assume you wish to return?”
“To be honest I haven’t given it much thought, I just got here.”
“Interesting,” Deblin said, raising an eyebrow as he watched his brother sit up, “well, you belong to me now Cicada, and in return for your service you will be rewarded with a way back to the surface.”
“You know how to leave the Underverse?” I asked.
“No, but Diablo does, and provided you prove your worth to him he may see it fit to secure your escape.”
“Okay, what’s the catch?”
“You must fight for me.”
He went on to explain the system of gladiatorial combat upon which a large amount of the Underverse’s infrastructure was built upon. Champions fight for blood, glory, and a chance for freedom. I was to be one of Deblin’s many gladiators, and given the situation there wasn’t much choice in it for me. He explained that his father was once a grand general in Diablo’s army, and that the Morriel family was once a respected clan amongst the denizens of the Underverse. However, after a power struggle in which Dedan had fled to save his own life, all that remained of the family was Deblin and his younger brother. If the Morriel clan could put forth a powerful champion they could rise from the ashes of their legacy and once again become a respected house.
“I suppose I can’t just say ‘no thank you’ can I?” I asked.
“Well, you could, but let’s just say it wouldn’t be very conducive to your well being.” He responded.
Dedan had finally become lucid and sat rubbing his sore neck. “Dedan,” Deblin said, forcing the smaller demon to snap to attention, “you belong to Cicada now, serve him to the best of your meager abilities.”
“But,” Dedan began, but was cut short.”
“Do not test my patience, the only reason you are alive right now is because this is a more fitting punishment than your death,” his brother said, “you abandoned your clan, and now you must pay for your cowardice, now guards, remove them from my presence.”
RE: Helldiver [M] - Storyteller - 01-26-2017
The architects of hell must have never heard of wood or plastic. Almost everything was constructed with equal parts of flesh, bone, and metal. And Deblin’s prison was no exception. A dank series of cells buried in the basement of the main building. Each cell looked like the inside of a car crash after a head-on collision with a dairy cow. Shafts of bone and metal with cords of thick muscle stretched tight formed the bars. Inside the dark cells various monstrosities and horrors shuffled about, some screaming, some hiding, and others watching. Metal covered with flakes of sharp rust formed the floors. Pink, wet, and riddled with veins the walls were the inside of a strep throat. It was Satan’s zoo. It was my home.
My cell was not much different than the others, and believe me it looks so much worse from the inside. It was like standing on the tongue of some malformed giant, waiting for the inevitable. There was no bed, and a hole in the floor made for, what I assumed to be, a toilet. Dedan was nowhere to be found, but that was the least of my worries. Kicking at the bars proved them to be as strong as steel despite their osseinic appearance. Perhaps it was claustrophobia, but my heart began to flutter, picking up an extra several hundred beats-per-minute. Sweat trickled down my brow. “Human,” a voice that sounded as if it belonged to a bear called to me. In the cell across from me a single eye, yellow and strained, watched me from the darkness. “Don’t look so scared,” its owner spoke.
“I’m not scared,” I lied.
“Well you should be,” Yellow-eye said. In the darkness he shifted about, a leviathan shuddering in the darkness. His ochre eye, riddled with stringy red veins, rose to its full height at least a foot and a half taller than me. Legs thick as barrels carried his massive frame into the light. What stood before me, trapped in a cage similiar to mine, was nothing short of monstrous. Orange skin, streaked with pale yellow tattoos, and quivering with thick chunks of muscle. Around his waist hung the pelt of some unknown animal, fashioned into a loincloth. Necklaces formed from teeth hung around his neck, clattering like macabre marracas. Greasy black hair french braided and pulled back into a makeshift topknot covered a skull marred by old scars. That single eye, yellow and curdled as yolk, its mate long since gouged out. “Humans don’t last long down here,” he spoke with a voice befitting his wretched appearance.
“Nice to meet you to,” I said, shuffling away from the bars of my cage.
“You know why they don’t last long?”
Silence was my response.
“They don’t last long because they’re weak, a race of sinners, unfit for even the mercy of Makkagrande,” he said and smacked his heart with his fist.
“Who the fuck is Makkagrande?” I asked. There was a sneaking suspicion in the back of my mind that Yellow-eye was Makkagrande. There was an even more insidious suspicion that my cell-neighbor was batshit insane.
“Makkagrande,” the jolly orange giant began, smacked his chest, and continued, “is the true god of this realm human, he is a god of action, a god of momentum...”
At this point my eyes began to glaze over as Yellow-eyes began to proselytize. Not only was the big boy aggressive he was a talker. Compared to the squalor and hellish abominations I had seen so far, nothing quite measured up to the torture that I endured listening to this beefcake blather on. Once again he smacked his chest and my mind connected the dots. Everytime he spoke his god’s name he performed this physical tic. What a tool. “For fuck’s sake shut up already,” I said, raising my voice with every word, “you orange motherfucker, I don’t give a good goddamn who you or your god are, so shut the fuck up or I’ll cut your goddamned tongue out.” Empty threats, that was how low I had fallen. I’m not proud of this, but at that point peace and quiet was high atop the list of things that I wanted.
“Bold words, we will see if your bravery exists outside these bars,” he said. I flipped him the bird. Again, I know, petty, but it made me feel better.
RE: Helldiver [M] - Storyteller - 08-22-2017
Well, there we go, another indefinite incarceration. Not that it was necessarily the worst thing that could happen. You see there was a certain sense of security that imprisonment brought. The Underverse is filled with forces much stronger than you could hope to contend with, and sometimes you have no choice but to bend to their will or be torn apart. In my case Deblin offered me freedom and a sort of job security. Fight and I would be fed. Fight and my thirst would be quenched. Fight and I would be rewarded. Fight and I would be freed. Fight for the amusement of others so that I may be saved. That was the idea anyway.
There wasn’t much to do besides wait. A few hours into my penal institutionalization an impish creature came down the rows of cells. It vaguely resembled a dwarfed human, aside from the pallid blue skin that was stretched across its angular frame. It pushed a cart that had several trays of stuff that looked like steak after it had been sent through a blender. As I would come to find out, this stuff was affectionately referred to as “mash” by the prisoners. What was mashed to make it was anybody’s guess, but if a gun was put to my head I would have to say it was probably roadkill. The gremlin stopped at every cell and slid a tray of mash through the bars. Soon enough a din of mastication spread through the prison block, filling it with sopping guttural sounds that ran counter to harboring a good appetite. He stopped at my cell, snorted, and smacked his lips.
“You’re, ehh, that new one, Cicada yeah?” He asked in a baritone voice that belied his diminutive stature.
I nodded.
“Ehhh,” he hesitated, waiting for the gears to spin in his thinkpan, “Deblin says you don’t get to, ehhh, eat tonight, says you’ll be more rav-ee-nuss in your upcoming, ehhh, bout.”
Hard to say if that was a blessing or a curse. The pinkish gelatin undulating on his food trays looked about as appetizing as you could imagine.
For a moment the blue imp scratched his bare chest. His mouth hung open and an absent sounding groan emanated from it. After a few seconds he crawl out of his stupor and caught his train of thought. He grabbed two trays of mash and slipped them through Yellow-eye’s bars.
“Ehhh, Deblin says you get a second portion tonight big guy,” he paused, rubbed his eye with the ball of his palm, and continued, “says you did a good job last fight, keep up the, ehhh, good work.”
Yellow-eye grunted and set to work on the slop. Blueboy continued down the hallway, leaving behind an errant trail of absent-minded sounds.
With a sigh I had resigned myself to a groaning stomach. It is my opinion that every should spend a few days without food, especially you suburbanite yuppie types. Fasting, as it was, gives you a better appreciation of the world we live in -- well, the world most of you live in. Supermarkets filled to the brim with all manner of food and beverage only serve as another way for us to disconnect ourselves from our ancestors.
As I sat, trying to devise a way to eat my own thoughts, Yellow-eye shifted about in his cell. Without a word he stretched a massive arm through his bars and towards mine. In his hand he held an untouched tray of mash. I raised a eyebrow and did not move.
“Eat, human,” he commanded.
“Why are you giving me this?” I asked.
He scoffed and answered, “Makkagrande is a god of action, and to be so hungry as to be unable to act, well, that is a grave sin.”
Mash tasted about as well as you’d expect. Meat-flavored peanut butter was the best analogy I could come up with. Burnt meat-flavored peanut butter made from three-day old roadkill. If there is anything you learn from this, dear reader, please realise that you should pack your own lunch when you come to the Underverse.
At any rate it was at least filling.
Later that night, long after my foray into Underversian cuisine, Deblin appeared before my cell. He appeared alone. Feigned disinterest played across his face as he examined his fingertips.
“So, Cicada, how do you enjoy my hospitality?” he asked.
“It’s a little stuffy, and your brochure says that you offer three square meals a day, but I have yet to get one,” I answered.
His eyes drifted over to the empty tray in the corner, “that so?”
“Well, maybe I exaggerated a bit.”
He nodded and hummed in response. The devil shot a sideways glare over his shoulder at Yellow-eye. Without a word to my co-conspirator Deblin returned his gaze to me.
“Enough formalities,” he said, “with no one of consequence around I can speak to you as I would an equal.”
I did not reply.
“You see, ever since Dedan’s betrayal and my family’s subsequent fall I’ve been need of a windfall,” he said, “you, I hope, are to be that windfall my dear Cicada.”
“By being your gladiatorial punching bag?” I responded.
He chuckled, “why you make it sound as if it isn’t the highest honor one can achieve down here.”
“I fail to see the honor in being someone’s cockfight rooster,” I answered.
“Oh au contraire, my boy,” he smiled and tapped the bars of my cage, “you are being offered something that very few people can achieve, freedom, to survive the pits and curry succor from Diablo, well that takes a very tenacious person, and I believe you have what it takes, so to speak.”
“Why’s that?” I asked, “don’t you consider my kind inferior?”
He thought for a moment, flicking his tail to and fro.
“While it is true that you lack the natural strength of my kin, strength is, in my opinion an overrated attribute, you’re quite clever and you have that oh so intangible spark of fire in your eyes,” he said, chuckled, and continued, “all that I’m asking is that you treat our relationship as a symbiotic one rather than one of master and slave, of course appearances will need to be maintained, but if you scratch my back, I will be sure to scratch yours.”
Without waiting for a reply he turned and began to leave.
He paused and said over his shoulder, “do try and get some rest, you’ve got a big day ahead of you my little pugilist.”