The Prisoner of Rage

[Strazio Rockwell]

Back in the hole.

Back down deep beneath the ashes and char of a burning village. Buried in the basement, underneath the dripping blood and screams of the dying. Nothing here except for smoldering cinders and fear. Strazio found himself dreaming of the massacre once again. This time however he was no mere child, no he was his present self. No, no this time he was the Avatar of Rage, the full-bodied child born of blood and flames. The living breathing manifestation of Damien's retribution, bearing the Rite of Magick and a less than reputable disposition. Never had he dreamed of Riverweldt with such terrifying power, such ruthless capability.

Something was wrong.

Something deep within the dark burning pit of anguish that plagued him nightly had changed. Something so very fundamental to the core experience of fear that fear was absent in this bleak place. Yes there was fire and ash and blood and screams, but there was also that undying rage, and the power that it offered to one willing to sacrifice his soul. Strazio moved in the darkness, standing beneath the crushing weight of the burning Riverweldt. There was a strange serenity in the darkness, a macabre chorus brought to life with hell as the backdrop. His flesh felt heavy and sluggish, molasses pumped through his veins and tar chugged through his muscles. Pain was strangely absent, and much like the fear that normally plagued the avatar he did not miss its presence.

Even more intrigueing was the presence of a large door, carved into the bloody stone walls of his prison. Upon its sanguine stained edifice the snarling visage of that damned clown was carved deep. A wicked grin cut deep into the rock and Gamzee's normally chill demeanor was absent. It seemed to breath and pulse ever so faintly with life. Stumbling drunkenly towards the door Strazio reached out in morbid curiosity. His hand pressed againts the stone and he felt a horrible churning in his guts. Viscous tar and soot spewed forth from his throat, vomiting painfully he ejected several liters of the brackish syrup. The scent of sun-baked fruit soda filled the room and his mouth soured with a terribly sacharrine taste, as if he had swallowed burnt sugar.
"Disgusting," he growled, wiping the excess muck from his stained lips.

Once again he placed a scarred paw upon the mute stone door and again his guts twisted into knots. A torrential burst of that rotten nectar erupted from his stomach and up into his throat. Doggedly stubborn the mage closed his mouth, trying to fight against the flood of tainted mollasses. It filled his maw with melted black licorice and it wormed through his sinuses, spewing out of his nose. Still he pressed harder against the stone, forcing it aside with one grinding heave. Pressure was relieved and with a spattering cough he cleared the liquid from his gullet. Before him a vast tunnel was revealed, spiraling deep into the terrible darkness below.

Slowly the avatar stepped forward, taking careful strides to avoid any hidden pitfalls. Cotton filled his mouth and he bit the back of his palm in anticipation. Even now, at the peak of his power he still found fear within his own heart. For what could possibly lie at the bottom of this pit?

That damned clown.

Gamzee fucking Makara.

He was absolutely covered in that tar. But this stuff, it was alive, it was something that threatened to envelop all that it touched. Strazio watched in silence as the troll was consumed by the tacky liquid.

"Fight it," Strazio muttered, "I don't know what the fuck that stuff is, but it ain't good."

A grey hand stretched out towards the avatar and grasp at air. Thick ropes of slime wrapped tightly against the troll's bare flesh and pulled him deeper into the undulating mass of toxic goop. With a sharp sigh Strazio reached out for Gamzee's arm.

"I better not regret this clown-boy."