<![CDATA[Omni Archive - The Underverse]]>

<![CDATA[Omni Archive - The Underverse]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/ Thu, 06 Aug 2026 05:52:53 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[The Fate of a Craven]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/showthread.php?tid=7315 Thu, 17 May 2018 07:14:46 +0000 Storyteller]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/showthread.php?tid=7315
Turq, the Thresher, easily seven feet tall, leered at passing demons with the confidence of one who has known only victory. His twin baboon faces searched the crowd, daring any to provoke him into action. Those powerful enough to challenge him knew better, for the Thresher had broken the backs of countless champions, and even the two combatants known to have survived an encounter with him had suffered irreparable injury from the caustic acid that coated his tendril arms. There were rumors he was a relative of the fabled Demogorgon, but none had dared to question him to learn the truth.

V’trock, of the Inquisition, a sludging mass of sickly yellow ooze came next. The inquisitor seeped over the broken ground with a ponderous metere, jutting bones and iron bars scrapping along the street as the oozes innards seeped relentlessly forward. It paused momentarily as the prophet’s corpus came dangerously close to the edge of its mass. Few things posed a threat to V’trock, but the loss of its prized slave-mind would be a dark chapter for the Inquisition of Dis. V’trock rose, twisting and folding over itself to maneuver the body away from the harsh stones, then proceeded onwards with a contented hum. It was looking forward to this one.

Qualloth, the thrice blind, came last. Compared to her two companions, Qualloth seemed almost tame. The curled bat wings, cloven feet and clawed hands became a welcome normality to the fearful observer. Yet this hope died at her head, for it extended farther than any normal person’s, three sets of unseeing pale eyes arrayed atop one another in a ghastly tower. From one clawed hand swung a brimstone thurible breathing the very essence of Dis into the air around the trio, the other held a bladeless hilt with a familiar grip. Though her six eyes roved the passersby, the milky orbs gained no purchase.

The trio stopped before the appointed door and Turq stepped forward, one talloned foot raised and snapped out, separating the door from its hinges with a solid snap.

---

Neujmin’s hand shook as he struggled with the uncooperative cigar. It was all coming down on him. Just as quickly as his influence within Dis had risen, now he was losing contracts, finding more and more doors closed to him. Whispers reached him that he had fallen into disfavor with the Lord of Terror. If this were true… He gulped down another shot of whiskey but found himself unsatisfyingly aware of his imminent peril. He glanced at the door to his office and re-opened the ledger. It had been a mistake to continue work during this situation. He should have stayed in his safe-house and let flunkies take the fall for him. But the answer had to be in there somewhere.

There was a crash from down the hall. The demon boss was torn between an urge to determine its source and a need to get away. He took a drag of the cigar. Fleeing would be pointless. If the sound was Diablo’s agents he would only be delaying the inevitable, and nothing made one look guiltier than attempting to flee. Neujmin racked his brain. How had he displeased Diablo? It was not exactly something that you could ask…

There was shout from one of his door guards, though it had turned into a sick gurgle before it was through. Not worth the investment after all. he grumbled, then spun his chair to face the bookcase behind him. The bust of Belial was in its expected place, and after checking the trigger was secured around his massive wrist, Neujmin flicked the safety off. The Demon head statue hummed ever so slightly, its eyes glowing with internal treachery. It would be a desperate gamble, but it might be enough. Certainly, he would not be able to escape this wholly unscathed.

There was a snick as the door to his office swung open. Neujmin sat, his back to the door, counting the footfalls. Two pairs, though the weird slurping sound could be an inquisitor. This was it. He puffed once on the cigar and spun round.

“And to what do I owe this visit?” he spoke with as much bravado as he could maintain, staring at the three powerful demons that had entered his room. Turq was a mainstay of Dis’s arena, when he wasn’t off on a mission of more importance, and the jelly was undoubtedly an inquisitor. His gaze shifted to their leader, the six-eyed demoness, her blinded gaze searching the room without purpose.

“You shall speak only when prompted, scum.” Turq barked, his two baboon heads snarling as the massive tendrils swayed before him in eagerness. Neujmin bit back his pride, and said nothing as Qualloth stepped before the other two. The Demoness held aloft the thurible, and an infernal flame sprung to life within the censer. The courts claimed the thurible’s contained a wick of Diablo’s own fire, and that it’s heat was his own. Its presence, his. Neujmin had always questioned the truth of the claim, but at this moment he would not dig the hole any deeper.

“You stand before Diablo’s courts, and are found wanting of strength. The lord of Terror has no need of a pawn that bows before man-filth. You are to be relieved of your position and existence, by decree of Lord Diablo himself. Before you stand Judge, Jury and Executioner. Make your plea well if you dare to sway Diablo’s judgement.” The six-eyed judge stepped backwards, allowing V’trock to ooze its way forward, bone spikes stabbing holes in the finely kept carpet. The inquisitor hummed with anticipation, the dead face within its mass staring blankly at Neujmin.

“I bow to none save Diablo, or his emissaries!” Neujmin cried, mind racing for his error. The Primes? “The primes I sent him were some of my best warriors! I offered them up as a tribute to his majesty!”

V’trock’s humming turned piercingly shrill, and Neujmin clasped his hands to his ears. He could feel warm liquid spilling between his meaty fingers. Through blurred vision he saw that neither Qualloth nor Turq seemed fazed by the sound. How could they stand it? Finally, the inquisitor broke the sound, and Neujmin realized with disgust that he had bit clear through his cigar.

“The Jury finds your plea invalid.” Qualloth spoke, her two middle eyes homed in on Neujmin, though the other four still wandered the office vainly. “By your own admission they are only useful in concert, yet you bowed to their caprice and sent each alone to audience with the Lord of Terror at THEIR OWN BEHEST.”

Neujmin blanched slightly, his hand straying towards the trigger concealed on his wrist. From beneath the fedora, the Demon boss eyed the trio before him, there was no way of knowing how much they were expecting a fight. Turq at least would be hoping for one, But Neujmin had always had trouble reading Inquisitors. No expression to read, no voice… It was almost unfair.

“By all the unholy hosts…” Neujmin began, “I never intended to bring any…”

“SILENCE!” screamed Turq’s two heads in concert.

“Your plea has failed to stir Diablo’s compassion.”Qualloth spoke, her eyes now back to empty wandering, “Your weakness must be purged from our ranks, that those who come after you remember the difference between master and slave. Executioner!”

Turq stepped forward eagerly, Baboon heads grinning with eagerness. Without another recourse, Neujmin pressed the trigger and ducked. Behind him the mouth of belial’s statue dropped open, and a clear liquid sprayed out across the room onto Diablo’s surprised court.

Holy water, purchased in Dis’s black market for an exhorbiant sum. It burned the skin of demon’s like the purest fires, and Turq’s twin heads howled as he took the brunt of the blast. Neujmin wasted no time, lifting and flinging his stone desk into the surprised Demogorgon, trapping him beneath its weight as his bulk burned with holy fire. Neujmin’s eyes stung from the mist left by the statue’s spray. He made towards the exit, but V’trock had gotten their first, the Ooze bristling with sharp spikes and metal barbs. It hummed a discordant rhythm, and Neujmin found it difficult to think clearly through the sounds. The inquisitor lunged and several spikes impaled the demon boss sinking deep and burning where the holy water still clung to them.

Neujmin grit his teeth and staggered back, two of the bone spikes still lodged in his chest. Massive fists closed around the bone shards and yanked them free. He was done for. The Inquistor had blocked his path and seemed to have avoided the worst of the Holy water. He had no weapons left that could hurt it. With a futile defiance, he hurled a bone shard into V’trock’s mass, the spike jutting deep into the suspended body.

Instantly, the discordant hum turned to a panicked thrumming, as V’trock sloshed away from Neujmin with a tender speed. It cradled the corpus within it, trying gently to work the bone spike free of its collar. Something compelled Neujmin to turn as Turq closed with a roar and to his surprise he rammed the other bone spike straight into Turq’s left head and out through the back of his skull. The Thresher roared and fell backwards, acidic tentacles slapping Neujmin and eating away chunks of his tailored suit. With a speed born of desperation, Neujmin whirled back and bolted towards the door. V’trock was cooing worriedly in the corner, out of his path. Flight would buy him time to plan, a chance to think his way out of the situation.

A slimy tendril snagged his foot, and Neujmin dreams of escape melted in front of his eyes as he tripped towards the ground. The fedora fell from his demonic face, rolling to a stop at Qualloth’s feet. the thrice blinded had done nothing since the fighting had started, in fact from the scorch marks she might have simply let the holy water hit her without even trying to shield herself.

“Nnnnot getting… awayyy withat…” slurred Turq’s remaining head, crumpled on the floor behind him. Neujmin could feel the Thresher’s acid biting into the flesh of his ankle as the tentacle coiled tight around it.

“Executioner?” Qualloth questioned, but Turq’s only response was an incoherent gurgle from somewhere behind Neujmin. Without further query the thrice blinded turned to address Neujmin.

“The Executioner and Jury have been overturned, but the Judge remains. The Sentence must be upheld.” The thurible’s flame seemed strangely oppressive amidst the constant heat of the Underverse, and Neujmin’s gaze was drawn to it despite himself. He tore his eyes away to look up at her. Three pairs of blinded eyes bore harsh gaze down upon him as she held the sword hilt before her. A coil of fire sprung from it, forming a blade of pure flame. Neujmin stared into the literal fires of hell as the blade severed his head from its body.

Qualloth reached down and grabbed the head by its locks. Without further waiting she left the room, leaving the gurgling Turq and a distressed V’trock behind her. Diablo’s message had been delivered. A demon bows to no manfilth, prime or otherwise.]]> <![CDATA[Demon Lives Matter... Right?]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/showthread.php?tid=6139 Tue, 17 Apr 2018 20:36:31 +0000 Centurion]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/showthread.php?tid=6139 Blood. Classically, red like the color of anger, yet also the color of love; The truest color of conflict. If only it were that simple down here. Instead, a kaleidoscope of colored ichor made this ballroom look like a kindergarten room where the unsupervised kids got into their teacher’s batch of lipstick and decided to play Picasso. It splatters the walls same as it splattered my soul, dark and crusty like week-old milk on a coffee table. My eyes scan the hellish ballroom, corpses piled high and intrigue even higher. Who could have possibly perpetrated a murder of this magnitude?

My fascination could be mistaken as morbid, were it not for the notepad in my hand and the pencil tucked into my trilby. My interest is purely business, and I was in the business of solving crimes like this. I bore no official sanction, as what passed for government in the Underverse would never give a second glance to some scruffy old gumshoe with too much emotional baggage and his compatriots tromping around Dis looking for justice. That was a commodity in these parts, as this grisly scene was testament to.

I am Detective Flint Maloney, ace mystery-solver and wearer of fine hats. This is not my first rodeo, and I doubt it will be my last. That was the way of the Underverse. The City of Dis, flaunting its ramshackle excuse for order, needed someone like me more than anywhere else. When something wrong is done, when a crime is perpetrated, when darkness and injustice creep into the hearts of men like a twisted Cancer with no intention of paying rent of utilities, I have to do something. It’s in my blood. It runs red, red like the color of apples and ketchup; Both remain true staples of a simpler time. A time when people still believe in right and wrong in spite of the grey areas. Now I slough through a multicolored world, where black and white has been replaced by magic markers and those colored pencils that smell like fruit, painting a myriad rainbow of morality. I need to do something, something to turn this place around.

Like a hedgehog enamored by the bold colors of their first carrot, a streak of violet catches my eye and drags me towards the center of the scene. Here. This was where it had started. A demoness lay there, crumpled and bloody, her face twisted into a permanent mask of horror. Her purplish blood burst out from her side across the ballroom floor and stained her Maid’s uniform. She had been struck first, with almost unbridled emotion. Almost. The initial point of impact was too jagged, it was a show of the slightest hesitance. Interesting. I take a few notes, jotting down my thoughts with a calm precision.

Lost in my head, I don’t register the arrival of my companion until he is close enough to grimace at the slaughter before us. I glance back, face more somber than at my hamster’s funeral almost a year ago, and nod in greeting. He comes closer in order to examine the scene, his distaste more visible than my own. Unfortunately, his usually stoic expression always carried with it a sense of disgust.

The man would win no pageants for beauty. His loyalty, however, was unparalleled. With me through thick and thin, this man had never left my side. His eyes bugged out like a sloth, long scars cutting crags in the rocky expanse of his visage like the emotional chasms between myself and my father. My partner was, and is, a good man. I trust him. We’ve known each other long enough to finish each other’s sentences.... Now I rifle through my notebook to remember his name.

I am interrupted by a grunt from my compatriot, who motioned to gouges in the wall. Uneven, vile tears in stone and tapestry bespeak a story of graceful rage. The streaks of death were smooth and elegant. Whoever did this seems to have almost… enjoyed it. It was a disconcerting thought. To imagine that this deadly dance had brought some twisted maniac pleasure only hardens my resolve to find the perpetrator and bring them to justice. With my notebook now filled with data, I turn to my friend.

“Let’s go. I’m done here.” I slip the pencil back into the brim of my cap and tug on my trench coat.

I pick through the slaughterhouse, trying my best to avoid the many bodies that lay strewn about like a toddler’s toys after a night with an especially irresponsible babysitter. The stench finally starts to get to me, but I push through it all and make my way for the door. The Bogart Bar and Grill, that’s where I should go. It’s a shady establishment, but one with no shortage of crooked businessmen, chatty barkeeps, and observant passerby to garner information from. All it usually takes is a free drink and some cold, hard, cash.

I lead the way into the street, streaming igneous marring my new shoes. That’s alright, I have more at home. Flaring plumes of flame randomly light up the sky as the rank birthing pools scattered around Dis spew forth their demonic spawn. Every day more evil pours into this world, more evil than I can stop. All I can do is clear a small haven of good, like sprinkling salt into the middle of a snail highway to create a dead zone free of mucus and snail droppings. The bustling city, wrought with its demons, ghouls, spectres, undead, and other dark spawn envelops me. I hate it, but I have to blend.

Making my way through the crowd, I chance a glance back at my comrade. Thanks to his wide berth, the man has little trouble cutting his own path. His visage, frightening as it is, does no harm to his ability to blend in. Finally, I come to the familiar neon lights of the Bogart. Outside stands Barney, the bouncer. Short nubs of horns peek out alongside his flared purple mohawk. His skin is a dark shade of blue, one he prides himself on oiling. The demon, burly and large, glances at me with distaste. However, thanks to past… agreements, he lets us pass. I enter the Bogart, steeling my will. It might be a hive of scum and villainy, but at the very least it could get us one step closer to finding justice for that girl and the many others slain in the Ballroom. I remove my hat and tuck it under my arm. Time to get to work.]]> Blood. Classically, red like the color of anger, yet also the color of love; The truest color of conflict. If only it were that simple down here. Instead, a kaleidoscope of colored ichor made this ballroom look like a kindergarten room where the unsupervised kids got into their teacher’s batch of lipstick and decided to play Picasso. It splatters the walls same as it splattered my soul, dark and crusty like week-old milk on a coffee table. My eyes scan the hellish ballroom, corpses piled high and intrigue even higher. Who could have possibly perpetrated a murder of this magnitude?

My fascination could be mistaken as morbid, were it not for the notepad in my hand and the pencil tucked into my trilby. My interest is purely business, and I was in the business of solving crimes like this. I bore no official sanction, as what passed for government in the Underverse would never give a second glance to some scruffy old gumshoe with too much emotional baggage and his compatriots tromping around Dis looking for justice. That was a commodity in these parts, as this grisly scene was testament to.

I am Detective Flint Maloney, ace mystery-solver and wearer of fine hats. This is not my first rodeo, and I doubt it will be my last. That was the way of the Underverse. The City of Dis, flaunting its ramshackle excuse for order, needed someone like me more than anywhere else. When something wrong is done, when a crime is perpetrated, when darkness and injustice creep into the hearts of men like a twisted Cancer with no intention of paying rent of utilities, I have to do something. It’s in my blood. It runs red, red like the color of apples and ketchup; Both remain true staples of a simpler time. A time when people still believe in right and wrong in spite of the grey areas. Now I slough through a multicolored world, where black and white has been replaced by magic markers and those colored pencils that smell like fruit, painting a myriad rainbow of morality. I need to do something, something to turn this place around.

Like a hedgehog enamored by the bold colors of their first carrot, a streak of violet catches my eye and drags me towards the center of the scene. Here. This was where it had started. A demoness lay there, crumpled and bloody, her face twisted into a permanent mask of horror. Her purplish blood burst out from her side across the ballroom floor and stained her Maid’s uniform. She had been struck first, with almost unbridled emotion. Almost. The initial point of impact was too jagged, it was a show of the slightest hesitance. Interesting. I take a few notes, jotting down my thoughts with a calm precision.

Lost in my head, I don’t register the arrival of my companion until he is close enough to grimace at the slaughter before us. I glance back, face more somber than at my hamster’s funeral almost a year ago, and nod in greeting. He comes closer in order to examine the scene, his distaste more visible than my own. Unfortunately, his usually stoic expression always carried with it a sense of disgust.

The man would win no pageants for beauty. His loyalty, however, was unparalleled. With me through thick and thin, this man had never left my side. His eyes bugged out like a sloth, long scars cutting crags in the rocky expanse of his visage like the emotional chasms between myself and my father. My partner was, and is, a good man. I trust him. We’ve known each other long enough to finish each other’s sentences.... Now I rifle through my notebook to remember his name.

I am interrupted by a grunt from my compatriot, who motioned to gouges in the wall. Uneven, vile tears in stone and tapestry bespeak a story of graceful rage. The streaks of death were smooth and elegant. Whoever did this seems to have almost… enjoyed it. It was a disconcerting thought. To imagine that this deadly dance had brought some twisted maniac pleasure only hardens my resolve to find the perpetrator and bring them to justice. With my notebook now filled with data, I turn to my friend.

“Let’s go. I’m done here.” I slip the pencil back into the brim of my cap and tug on my trench coat.

I pick through the slaughterhouse, trying my best to avoid the many bodies that lay strewn about like a toddler’s toys after a night with an especially irresponsible babysitter. The stench finally starts to get to me, but I push through it all and make my way for the door. The Bogart Bar and Grill, that’s where I should go. It’s a shady establishment, but one with no shortage of crooked businessmen, chatty barkeeps, and observant passerby to garner information from. All it usually takes is a free drink and some cold, hard, cash.

I lead the way into the street, streaming igneous marring my new shoes. That’s alright, I have more at home. Flaring plumes of flame randomly light up the sky as the rank birthing pools scattered around Dis spew forth their demonic spawn. Every day more evil pours into this world, more evil than I can stop. All I can do is clear a small haven of good, like sprinkling salt into the middle of a snail highway to create a dead zone free of mucus and snail droppings. The bustling city, wrought with its demons, ghouls, spectres, undead, and other dark spawn envelops me. I hate it, but I have to blend.

Making my way through the crowd, I chance a glance back at my comrade. Thanks to his wide berth, the man has little trouble cutting his own path. His visage, frightening as it is, does no harm to his ability to blend in. Finally, I come to the familiar neon lights of the Bogart. Outside stands Barney, the bouncer. Short nubs of horns peek out alongside his flared purple mohawk. His skin is a dark shade of blue, one he prides himself on oiling. The demon, burly and large, glances at me with distaste. However, thanks to past… agreements, he lets us pass. I enter the Bogart, steeling my will. It might be a hive of scum and villainy, but at the very least it could get us one step closer to finding justice for that girl and the many others slain in the Ballroom. I remove my hat and tuck it under my arm. Time to get to work.]]> <![CDATA[Honeymoon In Hell]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/showthread.php?tid=6854 Fri, 29 Sep 2017 01:01:13 +0000 Ash]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/showthread.php?tid=6854
At gravity’s mercy and the laws of wind, she rolled limply in the sky. It was hard to tell if she was even conscious, she couldn't’ rightfully tell you. Over and over, and over, her body spun lifelessly at terrifying speeds towards the City of Dis. With what little luck her life-force could call upon, she headed straight down a neatly lined alley between two black iron buildings whose gargoyle could be alive or merely stone and whose spires just begged for her blood. Her souvenir, the Ultramarine’s sword that still impaled her, clipped the edge of one of these two buildings and a screech of metal on stone was heard while a burst of sparks flung in her wake.

This projected her to the next building where she managed to half roll until the handle of the blade caught a stray nick in the wall. The sound was muffled by her still warm body, but the blade reverberated like a tuning fork and sent pleasurable pain through her pierced guts. If she was not awake before, she was now as she moaned out. A second later she was knocked against the other wall in her continuous descent.

As she fell into the opposite wall again, she could feel her skin ripping at her legs and sides, her head slamming into the wall just the same, bruises being left on her body, and blood left on the walls as gravity roughed her up mercilessly while she slowed her down. Until at last, she had nothing left to crash into but what was at the bottom of this neatly lined-up alley. All who could hear it would hear the body crash into a cluster of metallic barrel-shaped cans.

The Storm Demon screamed out in gut-wrenching pain, landing face down on these and shoving the blade back inside of her once more. A slick sound of fresh blood splattering against cobblestones was heard next as she gasped with a mixture of pain and desperation. Ash moved her hand to pick herself up off the sword, only to the cotton arm-warmer to do nothing to save her hand from slipping out from under her and the whole demoness falling off the pile and onto her side in the compact alley.

Eyes wide open, but looking just as blind, as well as her mouth. Her chest heaved and her stomach clenched around the razor-sharp metal that stuck out from her back as she struggled to breathe. Her lungs expanded just fine, but every beat her heart made sent signals that even alarmed her. She imagined one of those machines in a hospital, a heart monitor, its blank black screen being interrupted by a bright green line to show you the shape of your heartbeat. She imagined the line’s sharp spikes looking vastly different to what they are supposed to be due to the bullet in her heart.

She couldn’t decide what she should take care of first as she choked on her own blood.

Ash thought about what she’d seen through the weakening blinding white walls that held her captive, more importantly, what a weakening isoverse had almost meant. She must have been so close to victory that the contraption was ready to even name her the winner. Or perhaps it saw her desperation as the final nail in her coffin and was giving her one more look at the man she had been aiming for this whole time. What little it mattered as she had plenty of videos stored in her Comm for anything she needed a visual for. Other than to mock her, which she didn’t think inanimate objects could do reasonably or well.

By this time she’s gotten off her good arm and was sitting up as straight as she could with a massive blade piercing her fragile body. It reached up to her chest, and her fingers slid into the bloody hole in her chest. Cobalt blue liquid spilled out freely as she dug around her own chest for the bullet, which constricted and convulsed around her invading fingers. The left her writhing and biting into her lip ring. Ash felt no reason to not keep digging though, either she died within her chest or she died pulling it out.

Finding it was the hardest part, at least the biggest part of what was left of the huge bullet. She slid it out with the most care she could manage with blood covered fingers. Only at the end did she almost lose it to the tensed muscles in her chest, managing to keep it from retreating with her nails. Free of her chest, she flung the twisted metallic cylinder into the streets beyond the mouth of the alley before coughing violently and leaving ink blue droplets on her fist.

Her good arm fell to her lap as she breathed a bit easier without a bullet disrupting her heart. She willed the spare Omnilium to work that part of her body if it actually did anything she couldn’t tell.

The sword remained.

As she stared at it, her vision blurred and then returned to normal. She shouldn’t be surprised, the twisted blade created almost a waterfall of her blood to spill from the upper abdomen down her back and belly, soak through her skirt’s waistband, and then form a puddle in the cracks of the cobblestone that was firmly pressed into her crotch as she sat with her legs spread apart for balance and stability.

She took a few more heavy breaths before grabbing the hilt of the blade and with all the strength she had for this kind of effort, she pushed. Every inch of the longsword was felt in her weakened state, but Ash hissed. With no one to tease, it was hard to get all worked up over pain.

It clattered to the ground, blood still staining the sides which had runes that spoke something important. Her fingers were stained with the ink that was her blood as she inspected them. She was shaking…

The Storm Demon decided that resting in the alley, no matter where in the Omniverse you were, was probably a bad idea and picked herself up on weak legs. Her blood deprived muscles shook under even her light weight so that she didn’t feel comfortable without a wall to hold… Good thing she had two. She heard the sword rattling against the cobblestones as she picked it up, then dragging it like a doll behind her she followed the wall. The handcuff bracelet remained on her left hand, blood has already poured down the creases of her arm and she left a blue handprint on the wall she used for support. Two, three... When she reached the mouth of the alley she was already out of breath but leaned poorly on the wall as she tried to take in her surroundings.

She had guessed they had just punched her into the next Tier of Coruscant, but this looked nothing like T6... It looked far more demonic and put together than anything a bunch of thugs and low-lives could piece together.

Her eyes dropped, strained to see beyond her tired view... She tried to steady herself, and before she knew it her eyes were closed and the whole world was spinning. Either the floor under her feet shifted, or she moved side to side on her own, but the loss of blood was gradually getting to her. She tried to say something, even she didn’t know what it was though. It came out as a grunting squeak, and then her mind went dark.

Ash falls into the streets of Dis, the sword clattering beside her but remained in her reach. The Storm Demon remains motionless, not even a flicker from her tail…

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At gravity’s mercy and the laws of wind, she rolled limply in the sky. It was hard to tell if she was even conscious, she couldn't’ rightfully tell you. Over and over, and over, her body spun lifelessly at terrifying speeds towards the City of Dis. With what little luck her life-force could call upon, she headed straight down a neatly lined alley between two black iron buildings whose gargoyle could be alive or merely stone and whose spires just begged for her blood. Her souvenir, the Ultramarine’s sword that still impaled her, clipped the edge of one of these two buildings and a screech of metal on stone was heard while a burst of sparks flung in her wake.

This projected her to the next building where she managed to half roll until the handle of the blade caught a stray nick in the wall. The sound was muffled by her still warm body, but the blade reverberated like a tuning fork and sent pleasurable pain through her pierced guts. If she was not awake before, she was now as she moaned out. A second later she was knocked against the other wall in her continuous descent.

As she fell into the opposite wall again, she could feel her skin ripping at her legs and sides, her head slamming into the wall just the same, bruises being left on her body, and blood left on the walls as gravity roughed her up mercilessly while she slowed her down. Until at last, she had nothing left to crash into but what was at the bottom of this neatly lined-up alley. All who could hear it would hear the body crash into a cluster of metallic barrel-shaped cans.

The Storm Demon screamed out in gut-wrenching pain, landing face down on these and shoving the blade back inside of her once more. A slick sound of fresh blood splattering against cobblestones was heard next as she gasped with a mixture of pain and desperation. Ash moved her hand to pick herself up off the sword, only to the cotton arm-warmer to do nothing to save her hand from slipping out from under her and the whole demoness falling off the pile and onto her side in the compact alley.

Eyes wide open, but looking just as blind, as well as her mouth. Her chest heaved and her stomach clenched around the razor-sharp metal that stuck out from her back as she struggled to breathe. Her lungs expanded just fine, but every beat her heart made sent signals that even alarmed her. She imagined one of those machines in a hospital, a heart monitor, its blank black screen being interrupted by a bright green line to show you the shape of your heartbeat. She imagined the line’s sharp spikes looking vastly different to what they are supposed to be due to the bullet in her heart.

She couldn’t decide what she should take care of first as she choked on her own blood.

Ash thought about what she’d seen through the weakening blinding white walls that held her captive, more importantly, what a weakening isoverse had almost meant. She must have been so close to victory that the contraption was ready to even name her the winner. Or perhaps it saw her desperation as the final nail in her coffin and was giving her one more look at the man she had been aiming for this whole time. What little it mattered as she had plenty of videos stored in her Comm for anything she needed a visual for. Other than to mock her, which she didn’t think inanimate objects could do reasonably or well.

By this time she’s gotten off her good arm and was sitting up as straight as she could with a massive blade piercing her fragile body. It reached up to her chest, and her fingers slid into the bloody hole in her chest. Cobalt blue liquid spilled out freely as she dug around her own chest for the bullet, which constricted and convulsed around her invading fingers. The left her writhing and biting into her lip ring. Ash felt no reason to not keep digging though, either she died within her chest or she died pulling it out.

Finding it was the hardest part, at least the biggest part of what was left of the huge bullet. She slid it out with the most care she could manage with blood covered fingers. Only at the end did she almost lose it to the tensed muscles in her chest, managing to keep it from retreating with her nails. Free of her chest, she flung the twisted metallic cylinder into the streets beyond the mouth of the alley before coughing violently and leaving ink blue droplets on her fist.

Her good arm fell to her lap as she breathed a bit easier without a bullet disrupting her heart. She willed the spare Omnilium to work that part of her body if it actually did anything she couldn’t tell.

The sword remained.

As she stared at it, her vision blurred and then returned to normal. She shouldn’t be surprised, the twisted blade created almost a waterfall of her blood to spill from the upper abdomen down her back and belly, soak through her skirt’s waistband, and then form a puddle in the cracks of the cobblestone that was firmly pressed into her crotch as she sat with her legs spread apart for balance and stability.

She took a few more heavy breaths before grabbing the hilt of the blade and with all the strength she had for this kind of effort, she pushed. Every inch of the longsword was felt in her weakened state, but Ash hissed. With no one to tease, it was hard to get all worked up over pain.

It clattered to the ground, blood still staining the sides which had runes that spoke something important. Her fingers were stained with the ink that was her blood as she inspected them. She was shaking…

The Storm Demon decided that resting in the alley, no matter where in the Omniverse you were, was probably a bad idea and picked herself up on weak legs. Her blood deprived muscles shook under even her light weight so that she didn’t feel comfortable without a wall to hold… Good thing she had two. She heard the sword rattling against the cobblestones as she picked it up, then dragging it like a doll behind her she followed the wall. The handcuff bracelet remained on her left hand, blood has already poured down the creases of her arm and she left a blue handprint on the wall she used for support. Two, three... When she reached the mouth of the alley she was already out of breath but leaned poorly on the wall as she tried to take in her surroundings.

She had guessed they had just punched her into the next Tier of Coruscant, but this looked nothing like T6... It looked far more demonic and put together than anything a bunch of thugs and low-lives could piece together.

Her eyes dropped, strained to see beyond her tired view... She tried to steady herself, and before she knew it her eyes were closed and the whole world was spinning. Either the floor under her feet shifted, or she moved side to side on her own, but the loss of blood was gradually getting to her. She tried to say something, even she didn’t know what it was though. It came out as a grunting squeak, and then her mind went dark.

Ash falls into the streets of Dis, the sword clattering beside her but remained in her reach. The Storm Demon remains motionless, not even a flicker from her tail…

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]]> <![CDATA[Go To Hell, For Heaven's Sake]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/showthread.php?tid=5565 Sat, 17 Dec 2016 20:16:22 +0000 Ada Wong]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/showthread.php?tid=5565 Quote:

Continued from A Darkened Destiny.

“Did it hurt?”

The spoken words were faint. Whispery, like the secretive tang of bay leaves and juniper simmering on the surface of a stew.

Crowley ignored them. It was truthfully more out of necessity than anything; the pinewood forest around him was burning, scattered fires easily splitting the blackened trunks of trees into twain. A thin sheen of snow encrusted the ground, the ice crystals seeming almost like a halo of glass lazily curling around the red-gold flames. His lungs sucked in a breath he didn’t need, the taste of soot and crackling cinders coiling as smugly as a cat at the back of his throat.

He could not afford to be distracted.

“When you fell from heaven,” the voice continued. As if he did not know. “What was it like, heaven? Do you miss it?”

Crowley grimaced, running one shaking hand along the lines of his face. The white curve of his wings was bent over his head, feathers rustling on the smoke-clogged breeze, trembling down to where the socket and joint met. Jaws of metal tethered him to the earth, thwarting him in his every attempt to take flight. He tugged sharply at the bear paw-sized trap gripping his leg until the metallic teeth drew blood.

It didn’t hurt. Not terribly so, in any case. The bones of his leg were splintered apart by the force of the trap clamping down upon it, but that would all heal in due time, as most things had a tendency to do. It might take several centuries and swimming around in a wine-dark sea most of the time, but all aches healed sooner or later. No matter how close they drew to the heart.

“An angel banished to the Underverse. Strange, that.”

Finally, Crowley looked towards the pale poplar tree beside him, its skinny boughs almost skeletal in appearance. The long patches of shade cast from the pine trees standing all around thoroughly dwarfed it in size, an oddity which had lured him into the trap's clutches just as an unknowing calf goes to the slaughter.

The demon’s eyebrows furrowed, shoulders and spine stiffening into an almost painful bend with his crouched position. A cobra forming itself into a warning curve, ready to strike.

His voice broached beyond a whisper, though it was by a very thin margin. “What did you say?”

“It is strange that you would come here,” the tree replied, the mouth on its twiggy branch twisted and gnarled by the bark. The lips visibly cracked as they shifted, nearly translucent brown ichor oozing from them as it spoke. “Here, where the pink fingers of her ladyship dawn may not cast her touch. Oh, I would give anything to see her tender blush again! But instead I am here, condemned to my horrid woodenness for all eternity.”

There was a pause as the lips spread, a piebald tongue mottled all over with sores darting out to dab spittle across them. When the tree appealed to him once more, it groaned most pitifully, “Please, angel, fallen though you may be. The flames will devour me utterly before long. Tell me of heaven.”

Crowley stared at the tree. Tell this wretched sapling of heaven? No, absolutely not. The dread inferno, a banner of twisting sinews and heat, snarled and licked its chops in hunger. It crept nearer with each passing moment— wolfish in its design, predatory to a degree that blistered and steamed akin to a furnace, its ashen putrescence turning the sky black.

(Heaven had been cold. Perfect, like a sculpture shaped from marble by some old master. But Crowley had longed for warmth. Just as a reptile basks in the fierce glare of the sun, he had sought out heat— grasping, slithering and shivering into the hungriest of furnaces. And oh, how he had burned—)

He had no time to spare for lighthearted storytelling, thank you very much.

Before Crowley could answer, another voice, dry like the creaking of an old wooden step, broke in, “Now, now, Ophelia dearest! Must you be so crass? The poor beast has his leg caught in a trap. If he does not make haste and escape, the nearest earl’s scouts will assuredly find him and tear at his softest parts. Such a craven, spineless lot they are. Leave him be!”

Turning to look, Crowley beheld a pine as scruffy and unkempt as a used toothbrush. Unlike the poplar, its limbs were heavily laden with strong-smelling bristles, green and enriched by a crisp, heady scent that made the sickly sweet smoke almost bearable. It was what Crowley imagined a woodsman might smell like after cutting down several scrawny tree-limbs in one fell swoop, stubble frosted over with beads of snow and sweat. Parfum de Lumberjack – Midwinter Edition.

“Ah! I had forgotten,” the pale poplar, Ophelia, demurred.

“You forget many things, Ophelia.” The pine replied with a hum, a sage sound that sent a tremor through its fragrant needles. The demon, feeling bolstered by someone being on his side for once in a millennia, ventured to interrupt this inane conversation.

“I’d rather not be burnt to a crisp or have any of my soft parts torn apart, thank you.” Crowley said, speaking truthfully. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind— how might I free myself from this blessed trap?”

But the pine was not to be moved. “Humph! You would think an angel would harken back to those old laws of spirits. You are an insolent one, not so much like the noble Tyrael. Why, when that warrior of Heaven glided through our field of wretched sticks and came to be as haplessly ensnared as you are at this moment, he was certain to never offer a token in return for our council. The likeness of a pigeon is cast upon your words— you would fit in better amongst the dimwitted dead, methinks. Best to let the flames lick the flesh from your bones.”

“Goneril—” Ophelia began, sounding unsure.

“Shush!” said Goneril, the pine tree seeming to puff up in a self-aggrandizing way.

At this Crowley frowned, fingers twitching around the red-hot wound on his leg. Pain and discomfort buzzed about like gadflies in his brain, and it was with a shrill, rising sense of alarm that he regarded the rust speckling his hands, eyes narrowed until only the thinnest of golden-yellow slants remained visible.

A hard, wild look overcame him then, adder’s teeth bared as he gritted out his next few words. “But you just said—“

“Never mind what I said!” The pine tree wheezed, a branch swishing about in what the demon assumed was irritation, and Crowley could just make out beady little eyes and a swollen, moss-dusted nose fused almost imperceptibly into its trunk. Those beady, hateful eyes glared at him with all their might. “The laws of old must be upheld. Now, angel, devil, whatever you are; why don’t you better your own pathetic self before seeking to help others, hm?”

Crowley’s expression spoke volumes— volumes that were thick, old as sin, and showed quite some fading and rubbing along their spines, but were solid even so. And printed over and over again between their pages were these three words: What the fuck?

“What?” Crowley choked out, so appalled that he simply couldn’t form any further words.

“Not the brightest, is he?” Goneril remarked to Ophelia, sotto voce.

“I don’t know. He’s trying his best, I suppose. You can’t rush these things.”

“Only you would think that. He’s certainly no Morningstar. Not very bright. Small wonder that they booted him outside of the pearly gates, hum-hmm.”

“I like him,” Ophelia said. (“Can’t imagine why.” the pine tree mumbled. Crowley wondered at the fact that he would never again grow to like the smell of pine needles.) “Let’s help him, I say. I don’t care if he gives us anything or not— what use do we have for trinkets? A fool’s comfort they are. I say— I say, let’s help the poor thing. For pity’s sake.”

“For pity’s sake. The worst reason in all the world! Can’t you decide on another?”

“Here, now,” said the poplar, ignoring the pine’s interruption. “Tear at my roots and branches, angel; let my dark blood flow freely and soak the ground and bark. Once you have spoken my funerary rites, the blood will cause the trap’s metal to soften into butter.”

“Fat lot of good instructing him will do. Stubborn as a blind cow, that one— you can see it in his eyes. Or, er, you could, if he weren’t wearing those dark eyeglasses.”

Presently Crowley began to pick and peel at the poplar’s bark, the wooden bowels of the tree spirit within his reach letting out a deep stomach-rumbling groan as he worked. The roots were hopelessly entangled, thick as sausages, and burst like sheep’s intestines, black liquid weeping out whenever his fingers dug in and punctured. The stench produced was vile, redolent of rotting corpse fluids and aged cheeses; Crowley very nearly retched, observing with a reluctant scientist’s keenness as the blood stained the soil.

“That’s it. Good. Now paint it over your shackles— do not make incomplete smears, angel. Keep at it!”

So, Crowley did.

When at last it seemed the poplar had no more black ichor left to give, its shrunken husk set all aquiver by every brush of the wind, Crowley glanced carefully up into its bizarre, twisted face. Every last drop speckled his metal confines, burbling and sizzling in the quiet. His expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts, save for the slight worried pinch between his eyebrows.

The poplar sighed, a weary thing. “I was mortal once, dearest angel. You must understand this. My life was filled with hardships that I felt I simply could not bear, and yet my wooden spirit persists here still, in this fiery grave. All I long for is heaven’s glow, or even just a simple word or two about it, to imagine. Please, O shining one, tell me of heaven.”

It wasn’t just that he looked a teensy bit out of his element. Oh no, that would have been far too simple. Crowley seemed supremely uncomfortable with existing at that exact moment, his face taking on a nasty twist that made it seem as if he were attempting to swallow a healthful lump of pepper and sawdust. More uncomfortable than if he were standing in the sun shadow of a stained-glass portrayal of Jesus H. Christ.

“I don’t know if I’ll be any good at this,” the demon admitted, reasoning that this must be what people felt like when they entered a dreary-shaded confessional box. Not that he would’ve known anything about that.

“Try,” urged Ophelia. “Please.”

“’Please,’” Goneril sang contemptuously.

Right, then. Crowley smoothed down his pant legs, fumbling with the fabric as he tried to compose his thoughts. Then, he spoke. Quietly, at first, and then with a greater sense of urgency.

“A geometric shape ringing about your head doesn’t make you holy,” he began. “Everyone believes you had to have done something wrong to fall, but that just isn’t true. It’s simple, really. Consider a worm, will you? One of those quiet, wriggly, cold things in the ground. What’s their issue? Raindrops call them up to the surface to breathe, ineffably— it was rather like that, you see. A bunch of angels, hanging around in empty space, quiet as anything, ‘til some bloke comes out and says, ‘What are we all standing around for? Aren’t we a grand bunch, watching the mud monkeys run about from our cosmic perch? I say we get out there and cause a ruckus, too wondrous are we in being and shape to be content. Say, Crawly— get up there and stir up a mite of trouble, will you?’ And that was how it went. Worms to raindrops.”

When he had finished speaking, the demon cringed. That metaphor had admittedly eluded him just a small amount. Well— more like it had spent the past sixteen years occupying space in his flat, eating his food and watching his television and running up the internet bill, before abruptly deciding it was fit to survive on its own and seeking emancipation. That kind of thing.

“That didn’t make a lick of sense,” griped the pine. Crowley had to agree.

“Heaven, though. It was all-right. It wasn’t all harps and halos, if you really want to know. I don’t miss it,” he lied.

“Oh,” said Ophelia, barely an exhale, and Crowley discerned a note of disappointment. Without really knowing why he did it, the man-shaped demon hastened to elaborate. Perhaps it was pride at giving up something everyone professed to be so wonderful. Perhaps it was something entirely different. Whatever it was, he became despicably set on making heaven out to be as magnificent as the scripture professed.

“The place was beautiful. Think of everything you’ve ever tasted and liked, every song you wanted to hear played ten times over. Or— or a balloon slipping out of someone’s hand, drifting up into a sea of white cotton. That’s your soul, see? It’s, uh, maybe red?— scarlet skin reflecting the sorrow of something lost, a lone red blot ascending into the heavens, contemplating a sky blue future up There. And your soul is that balloon. Lovely. You’ll love it.”

“Oh,” Ophelia said again, now a gentle sigh. The demon grimaced in kind.

“I’m no good at these sorts of— err, poetic, — things. Lived over a thousand years, not a single week spent at university,” he blurted, suddenly defensive.

“You don’t say!” said Goneril.

“No, no. It was quite good. I thank you, angel. You have done me a great service,” said the poplar. The demon watched those sore-riddled lips curve upwards into a feeble facsimile of a smile. “My end will be a happy one.”

Feeling mighty awkward, Crowley scratched at the side of his nose and averted his sunglass-clad eyes. The poplar continued to speak, voice waning with its steady decline into oblivion.

“I can hear their dreadful wingbeats already, yea— they are gifted with feathers that slice at the air like steel knives. Blood draws them near. You must take flight at once, bright one, when my magic has freed you.”

A glimmer of light fluttered at the edge of Crowley’s periphery vision, causing him to give a start; it was far nearer to him than the steady roar of the forest fire, drawing his attention like a fly to sap. As he watched in confusion, the blood on the trap shimmered and sparked in flecks, tiny glimmers of orange crackling like the dying embers of a campfire.

Flouncing upwards and swirling like the silver-threaded ends of gossamer ladies’ skirts, fireflies of light took to the air, conflagrating into a train of small little droplets of brilliantine fire crawling along his limbs, surrounding the trap in a radiant band and causing him to squirm. Dancing and glowing brightly one final time, they vanished into the ether, leaving behind a very muddled demon.

“I feel violated,” he muttered under his breath.

Glancing down, he discovered that the poplar had not lied to him. The trap easily gave way with the lightest of tugs, a gummy string of liquefied metal tracing the movements of his leg in wet strings. His foot slid somewhat in the goopy mess as he got to his feet with difficulty, hurriedly straightening the wrinkles in his jacket while trying not to fall over and face plant in the dirt.

He glanced over at what remained of the poplar. It was paler than it had been before, nearly glowing against the sky painted all over with the echoes of flames and gusting smoke, and the face fixed onto the branch was much more visible than it was before. The bicep-shaped branches, the curved calves gently sloping out from the trunk— all of it completely drained and darkened by the deluge of sap. The eyes were empty, sallow thumbprints pressed into the bark, while the mouth was twisted part of the way open, gaping in a perversely euphoric rictus, making it crystal clear that the tree’s soul had slithered out from between its lips only seconds ago.

Shaking off a case of the willies, the demon noticed that his leg let out a most alarming crunching sound whenever he tried to shift his weight onto it. Still, he was free— free! – and could now caper about all he wanted, so that was good enough for Crowley. Small grinding sounds, like shards of glass across gravel, accompanied his movements as he made to stride off on his merry way.

“Hey!”

Of course, it was too good to be true. Crowley pivoted on his heel, wincing as his leg shuddered under him. “Yes?”

“Just where do you think you are going? You won’t get far without my guidance— I can bid you the swiftest route to the city whose name is Dis, for a price!” If he didn’t know any better, Crowley could almost say that the belligerent pine sounded…. worried?

“Mmm,” Crowley hummed, glancing exaggeratedly at his fingernails. A smattering of rust ringed about his cuticles; he would have to see about washing up later. Looking up, he bared his teeth in a wolfish grin at the pine. “Pass.”

Goneril gave off a displeased squawk, babbling almost incoherently as the demon once again moved to leave it to its fiery fate. “The scouts shall get you! Just you wait! Abominable creatures, vile in both appearance and behavior. Every day when the sky grows dark, or when their own twisted hearts so advise them, they land upon my branches and strip them of the bark so that the sap flows and I sting with every drop shed. They will tear out your eyeballs, feast on your tongue—“

Putting all that behind him, Crowley squinted against the hot cinnamon wind, the blackened sighs of flame and bark commingling drowning out the pine tree’s frantic pleas (interspersed with colorful threats, of course). There was snow underfoot on that blistering plain, giving off a dazzling glow under the fire’s lavishing breath. Stones dark as the lyrics of an Evanescence song crackled under his feet as they shifted; an avalanche of smoke shrouded everything in a confused muddle.

It looked a bit hellish, he supposed. A good deal different from his idea of Hell, though.

“Freeing Ophelia has no doubt sealed your fate,” droned the pine at some distant, whiny corner of Crowley’s selective hearing. “The land itself will rise—“

A tremor simmered under his feet, barely there. Minor shocks sent a pebble scuttling like a tiny crab from the ocean’s crushing waves. The demon, too caught up in his thoughts to pay this any mind whatsoever, rubbed his chin and let his forked tongue taste the air.

First it swept left, the brownish noodle-y appendage turning about in a precisely snake-like way. Finding nothing of import there, his tongue twisted over to the right, quavering a tad when a burst of fiery hot ash alighted upon it.

By the taste of things, that seemed to be where the forest fire had originated. Crowley decided then and there not to go that way.

The ground shook again, but with more feeling than before.

“You will regret ever setting foot here, prime!” the pine wailed.

The demon’s tongue slipped back into his mouth as he watched a measly pebble bounce off from the toe of his shoe.

“Hm,” Crowley hummed.

His eyes lifted when an alarmingly loud crack! shattered the calm. There appeared to be a very, very rapidly-widening fissure forming beside him, great heaping handfuls of dirt tumbling into it at a time. A small tongue of fire leapt out in a flare that nearly singed his right wing, setting a patch of the crisp white feathers to smoking.

“Ah,” he said.

The red earth beneath the pine tree started to bulge upward— truly, the entire plain seemed intent on rising up, what with the way it was quaking— startling Crowley into clinging onto the pine for dear life. It was at this point in time that he thought it prudent to listen to what the old tree was screaming about.

“You fool,” the pine hissed, even as its roots began to unfurl from the gravity-loosened soil like a jellyfish’s coils. “Any true angel should know that the only sentiment to hold towards a sinner is disdain. You don’t even realize what you’ve done!”

“What I have done? I haven’t done anything!” Crowley retorted, his fingers clawing at the bark as the ground continued to churn and fold. A deluge of pebbles and dust rained down on his head from above.

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut. A sensation like rising up to the highest floor of a building in an elevator choked him with its suddenness, sending his stomach into a nauseous flip. It was when his body had nearly been completely wrapped around the tree that he even dared to open his eyes, cringing at the sight he beheld there.

Empty space occupied by nothing but reddish vapors drifted below him. His shoes gleamed as he blinked down at them, dangling perhaps twenty three meters off from the ground.

Beneath his legs, he could see now, were much, much larger legs. They belonged to the walking mountain he and the pine were clinging desperately to— a metal behemoth covered in dirt, with ancient guns and strange doors grafted into its iron sides. Its heavy, stomping feet sent shudders through the ground, the flames lapping without effect at its armored skin.

“The earl’s magicks are at work!” Goneril screeched. The soil of the beast’s belly that it was entrenched in juddered and made another stomach-wrenching turn, antique cylinders spewing smoke and nearly sending Crowley flying with the force of it.

“I didn’t ask for this!” the fallen angel yelped, his grip on the rough bark slipping as his agitation grew. “I didn’t ask for this at all! This is the furthest thing from what I would ever even dream of asking for, don’t you see?!”

The burning expanse of hide nearest to him shuddered, icicles glinting like tinsel as they broke off from the rocky ledge and plummeted down towards the fiery abyss below. The creature stomped forward like a beast possessed, unconcerned by the shouts of its passengers.

One of the pine’s branches swung out and struck him across the face, leaving the demon spluttering.

“Pull yourself together, idiot!” the sentient plant cried.

“No!” Crowley shrieked back, hugging the trunk more determinedly.

Quickly then came a winged beast dusted over with shade, darker than a meadow veiled beneath midsummer heat. The babble of embers was drowned by its shadow, gutted by its blade-claws which pierced the glade, oftentimes devoured its meat. Drips wept from the creature’s lone red eye, sizzling as flesh does when burnt to gristle. It was circular and dotted in the center, a fiery bulls-eye, plunging with tidal rage and crushing force toward the unfortunate fallen angel.

The masses of black quills dotting its hide converged around it in a miasma of gloom, then whisked away as fall leaves do when a cool wind blows, crawling across the frost-dusted behemoth’s flank with the utmost care. Swarming fingers like spider’s legs trailed behind the unknowing demon, who was still rather preoccupied with trying not to fall to his doom.

Feelers, distinct and skeletal in their form, skittered over his limbs with the lightest of touches, disturbing scarcely a feather on the wings of his back.

"Foolish flesh-house," they jeered at the back of his skull, whisper-soft.

Spindly claws pricked at his skin. "Such a tasty thing!"

A thousand moonshadow eyes leered, impatient but kept in check by their lord. "Shall we gobble it up?"

The hovering monstrosity hummed, the mantle of sentient feathers returning to ring about its long, giraffe-like throat, upon which a circular head was largely taken up with its single fiendish eye. It was vaguely man-shaped, with dark grey skin and six limbs that hung loosely in the air, the swollen pudge of its stomach a sharp contrast from the emaciation of its appendages and upper rib-cage. All six of its limbs were tipped with three sickle-sharp claws, wickedly curved, and for a moment they hung in puppet-like stasis.

But only for a moment.

“I have no idea of what’s going on, but it feels like some horrible thing is skittering on my back,” Crowley babbled to the pine, his yellow eyes bright and feverish. “Please tell me there’s nothing there.”

“Fine,” said Goneril, with a bit more sass than Crowley would’ve liked. “There’s nothing there.”

Before the demon could even begin to make heads or tails of what was happening to him, a huge clawed foot had wrapped around his middle and wrenched him into the air. Its iron-taloned grip held him fast, his ribs cracking like the piano’s ivories in a concerto; sharp nips of pain snapped at his lungs, all needles and pins and glistening red.

Through his pain-blurred vision, the demon watched as the pine tree was wrenched from the soil, screeching crow-coughs spurred on by the gales that flogged at its needles. Then, woosh! The cantankerous tree was gone, having tumbled too far into the abyssal zone for it to be perceived any longer. The enormous beast continued to lumber along on its four legs, oblivious to the loss of its two hitchhikers.

Higher and higher they ascended into the starless sky, Crowley and his predatory captor, howling winds tearing at the demon’s eyes and face, splinters embedded under his fingernails from where he had frantically grasped for the pine.

Naturally, Crowley flipped the fuck out.

The demon’s body jerked like a serpent that has just realized it’s been caught in the talons of an eagle, whip-like and visceral. Despite the hideous ringing in his ears and the first bitter dredges of panic skittering along his spine, he was able to contort into a frankly impossible position and dig his teeth into the creature’s clawed foot.

It tasted of leather and ash, sandpaper scraping across the fork of his tongue; the beast screamed in agony, its massive orange glare spotlighting over him as its fiendishly glowing eyeball roiled about in its skull, and then suddenly he was dropping like a stone, spinning, the whole world whizzing past in a flushed haze of wind and shrieks of lamentation as his wings beat uselessly against the air.

Well, thought Crowley, lips peeled back over his teeth in anticipation of hitting the ground. That wasn’t the best idea.

A rippling banner of… something whistled past, the folds of his clothes billowing outward in a parachute curl. Loose and towering structures hurtled by. A very bad idea, really.

His grimace became more thoughtful. The worst.

He had scarcely finished this thought when he splashed into a drum full of nectar, the liquid inside like drops of sizzling oil swallowing him up, dark and thick and foul, boiling him inside like a greased eel.

It was a basin, immense and barrel-shaped. It was loaded onto the back of an ancient, rocking-horse style buggy, and its contents sloshed spiritedly about with every bump the cart’s wheels struck. Clay pots burnished with honey-glaze and smoothed over by rocks or shells were cluttered in beside it, sparkling against the dark umber skyline.

The cart’s driver, to all appearances a flesh-colored sack stuffed with potatoes, sunk further down into its wooden seat without much aplomb, thick calves waggling slightly. The great number of lumpy human faces disseminated across its form did not stir in the slightest as a raucous splashing arose from its cargo, occasionally sprinkled with shouts of ‘Help!’ and ‘Is this blood?!’.

At last noticing a spray of reddish fluid and the spluttered cries, one head twisted and writhed in a horrid stretch of skin to face its neighbor. A chorus of strained moans came from the other noses, eyes and mouths layered into its skin, all of them stretched far too thin to speak by this movement, the bloodied whites of their eyes glistening and weeping in the gloom.

“Did you hear that, Lefty?” it asked.

“No,” the other face, Lefty, said. “I don’t have ears on our rear end, I don’t think.”

“Oh. Well, something’s making an awful lot of a din back there, shrieking and sniveling and what have you. D’you think we ought to stop for a bit and see what it is? Might be something good.”

Last time it had been something good. They’d fed off of that poor sucker for weeks, and he’d made a pretty new face for the abomination’s bumpy rear— well-groomed eyebrows, aquiline features, the whole shebang. They’d also been able to corpse-rob some Greek wine with a sharp-tasting pine smack to it.

Righty loved him some Grecian goodies.

“Not really. I’d rather we made it on time for once,” explained Lefty. “This whole gig’s a right big deal, mind you; the beasties need their lunch. It wouldn’t be right to get rid of any extra nutrition that often, neither.”

“I heard it, too,” remarked a third face, located directly above them so that the three heads together formed some kind of unholy, Cerberus-like trinity. “It screams mighty prettily.”

“Like a bird!” agreed Righty, far too cheerfully for someone talking about potential murder.

Lefty glared to the best of its ability between the two of them. “No. We will not stop this cart, not for the end of the world or otherwise. Think’ve the nutrition, boys.”

“I s’pose you’re right,” Righty glumly said, snaking round to face the front again. They traveled in relative silence then, the only sounds being the hysterical splashing from the cart’s backside and the squealing of the wheels.

A hand clawed against the basin’s rim with a spatter, the skin stained a grotesque and sticky red. A head soon followed and, accompanied by a set of dripping shoulders, Crowley spluttered as he rested his chin atop the ledge. His sunglasses were miraculously still covering his eyes, the hair atop his head slicked down across his scalp, making him seem like a drowned rat. The soles of his shoes brushed the bottom of the vessel and held firm, allowing for him to linger in place.

It was just blood, and while that was twelve varieties of disgusting, he probably wasn’t going to die.

Strange bits and bobs of mysterious and squishy origin brushed up against his submerged form, a subtly metallic and salty stench to it. What looked like the blown-apart skull of a pig bobbed to the surface and brushed against his chest with its snout, staring up at the demon with its deadened eyes before he hurriedly slapped it away with a disgruntled squawk.

They were on a bridge, that much was clear. Below the bridge steamed a river of hot, partly molten rock, somehow sustained by a few meager metal chains and wooden planks despite the heat. Giving a light sniff, Crowley squinted at the back of the cart’s driver, wondering if he could convince the gruesome fellow to stop and let him clamber out.

“I still think it wouldn’t hurt to take a nibble or two,” he heard it mumbling to itself, even as a chorus of whines seeped out from the porous-like orifices covering every spare flap of skin on its body. All of the faces of its backside drooled and wept up at him, sweat and other gross fluids dripping from their faces. Crowley tried not to stare too openly.

He started when a different voice replied, seemingly from the same general vicinity. “I said no! No nibbling, capiche?!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Diverting his attention from the mumblings of his chauffeur, the fallen angel looked towards wherever they were headed. The bridge, while a terribly twisty thing that seemed about ready to dump them into the fiery moat below at the drop of a hat, looped towards what appeared to be a great walled city.

From what little Crowley could see, a shadow towered above the streets of this polis, a coliseum-shaped structure as lofty as the Tower of Babel itself, half-finished still, crumbling in its efforts to become one with the dome of the arterial red sky above.

At the base of this theater was an altar set alight with golden flame, the tall shrine made from the thighbones of a beast so large that the Prime Evil was said to have grappled fiercely with it himself before at last subduing it. In the shadow of one dense bone stood a broad-shouldered demon equipped with a large double-edged axe, a cool slice of steel against the gloom. A hundred mouths slavered as each fiend present jostled one another for a spot at the front of the horde, the glow of the torches lending to the glint of evil delight slanting in their rat-like eyes.

A screech like a pig being slaughtered pealed out as two bodies were half-dragged towards the blaze, wriggling against the grip of the attendants holding their arms. They were a man and a woman, both human, their forms rubbed down with gleaming oils and painted with rich lapis lazuli and a warm cinnamon glimmer, clothed in naught but slings of velvet-soft cloth laced about their hips.

Priests cloaked in thick smoke approached with wooden bowls full of clear, shining water and placed them at the victim’s feet, meant to capture the blood. A short invocation was spoken— a delightful sound to the waiting mob’s ears. A lock of hair was then sliced from the victims’ scalps, first the ewe and then the ram, before being burned in offering— a shine like that of fallow gold lapping at one magician’s fingertips as it was set alight.

In one great swing the blade of the axe shone, slicing cleanly through the neck tendons of the first sacrificial lamb. Dark arterial blood flowed freely, the disjointed limbs seized by the attendants and turned so that the remaining stump bled into the bowl, turning the crystalline water nearly black. A golden wine cup was filled to overflowing with the ruby-colored liquid and tipped upon the lips of the other victim before they, too, were dispatched with equal ceremony.

Savories for tasting were passed all around, four-tined forks glistening with heat rending flesh from bone. Menflesh was burned on the spits, the dribbling fat casting a visceral and sizzling glare over the coals, screeching steam billowing outward to warm the pageantry roiling around it in a sea of grasping claws and gnashing teeth. The raw strips of flesh were strung out like the strings of a fiddle, a twang of deep echoing dread simmering down to the last piece of burnt gristle ‘til naught but sparkling white bone remained.

Arriving at the edge of this crowd, a solitary imp carefully picked her way through it, but not before knocking shoulders with a random spectator. Turning, the lower half of their chin slathered with bright carmine like a beast at kill, they held a chine of glistening manflesh up for her inspection.

“A nice cut, eh?” The other demon asked, grinning gaily down at her.

The imp’s eyes hungrily shifted to the dribbling strip of meat in his claws, swiveling down and away after a single distant drumbeat had tolled, her manner all nonchalance and feigned distraction.

It was a nice cut, and she would very much like to take it. Sadly, Threshya was out for blood, and she had to move quickly if she hoped to evade his ire.

Turning in a sweep of her cloak, the scrawny imp ducked into the thick of the crowd, blood-drunk sighs and spatters of finger-lickin’ good red raining down upon her head as she squeezed through. Her ordinarily blue wrap looked like strawberry rhubarb gorge when she finally emerged from the crowd, the fuzz on the tips of her ears and cheeks spiking up from the humidity generated by over a dozen bodies. Unperturbed, she continued on, footsteps quick and light across the cobbles as she cut a sharp left down one of the polis’s numerous alleys, interconnected bridges swaying overhead and pleasure seekers crammed into every doorway.

The stale air coursed invigoratingly through her bluish fur as she loped down the narrow passage. Time was oh-so-malleable beneath the vaulted walls of the city, mere seconds seeming to stretch on for hours while surrounded by the stench of ammonia and leaking wounds. It was only in the heart of the amphitheater that time seemed to run its normal course, the fire of fight fending off the bindings of suffering and monotony.

Over the sound of her claws clicking against the stones and the distant calls of revelers, she heard a stone trickle with a funky click-clack-plonk across the ground ahead of her. Ducking into the shadows, the imp’s cheek fluffed against the slimy brick as she instinctively veered away from where a row of torch sconces was melded into the wall. An archway that led into a stairwell stood just before her, right within her grasp, when she paused.

She heard the sound of feet— many of them— plodding heavily down the stone steps. Footfalls reverberated against the walls like thunder, and the imp watched with mounting unease as numerous shadows were cast across the curved wall.

Fear surged up the imp’s spine like an injection of ice water when she heard a familiar voice barking out orders in demon-speech. Two companions trailed behind a tall, obsidian-skinned demon as he stalked down the stairs with leonine ferocity, bright fuchsia frills raised in an effervescent slice about his neck, belying his flesh-merchant status.

“Tha jellybrains, silently beest! Thum wiserly windowscrapers, comen thuswise the wench shall! (Be silent, you fools. If my sources are correct, she will be passing through before long.)” snarled Threshya, his tail thrashing about so that the spiny barb on its end glinted in the dim light.

Something else glinted in the shadows as well, from beneath the folds of Threshya’s fancy fuchsia garb. The smaller imp leaned close, small rodent-like nose twitching as her bright orange eyes gleamed.

Metal. Sweet-tasting on the air— bloodied, and freshly. Perhaps corpse-robbed?

Her movements were cloaked by the noise and clamor, the pulse of the snare drum rattling her teeth until they chattered. The bustle within the crowded alley-space hid the sway of her cloak as she moved nearer to the trio, footsteps measured and careful as anything.

The shadow of her fingers dipped inside of Threshya’s coin purse and then grew motionless as a viper. Little by little, skillfully, the smooth metal slipped into her palm and relief warmed her chest. The imp’s breath stalled in her throat until she had slunk far enough away to inspect her prize.

Sunbright gold flashed under the starless sky. She grinned down at the two golden flakes nestled in the palm of her hand, fangs too wide for her grill peaking over her bottom lip.

There was something about gold that was different than other precious metals, and she found that she straight up favored it when compared to other stolen treasures. She smirked, pinching a piece between her thumb and forefinger. It was warm against her fingers, almost slippery, shifting with dozens of hypnotic yellow gleams slanting across its surface. Like a dance.

Threshya turned, frowning and digging around in his pockets until he sighted the two gold pieces glimmering delightfully in the imp’s paws.

She froze.

He froze.

Her heart froze and the blood seemed to freeze in her veins, as well. That is, until the leathery demon’s lips peeled back into a nasty snarl at his quarry, exposing two sets of needle-like pearly whites. He summarily abandoned the language of hell in favor of a more malleable vernacular.

“Why you little—“

He came barreling towards her with grasping claws and a face full of teeth, flesh-rending spines erupting from beneath his skin in a matter of seconds. Reacting entirely on reflex, the imp lashed out and threw the two measly flakes of gold at him, diving after them once she realized what she had done. They nipped off from his skin and dealt minimal damage, but they distracted Threshya for just long enough that it was possible for the bluish imp to snatch the gold up once more and duck around his spiky dukes, paws skittering across the brick.

One of Threshya’s companions lunged towards her with a roar; she could hardly sidestep in time to avoid the blade’s bite, two scimitars clanging in a vicious ‘x’ pattern where her throat had been a second before. The third demon had apparently taken the time to draw back a bow and arrow, the arrow shaft that stuck into the brick by her cheek vibrating so fast that it was nearly invisible to the naked eye.

Eyes stretched wide with fear, the imp chirped in alarm at the spike of sharpened wood embedded next to her head. She was willing to admit that she was a coward, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have brief, shining moments of canny as fuck bravery.

This was not one of those shining moments.

The imp ran. The imp ran for her life, and also across a rooftop— after scaling the nearest market stall to reach it, that is. A dizzying view of both sky and hell-dirt reeled alongside her like colored tickertape, the sounds of dancing and music undulating upward from the light of the cooking fires that dotted the street below. With a frosted glare more unforgiving than winter’s snow, swiftly across the street and after her did Threshya go.

Her thoughts slid and skidded, lurching up into her throat with the rabbit-quick thumping of her heart. The soles of her sandals did little to keep the tiles from searing into her feet, the rooftops having grown hot under the sauna-like conditions, and so it was with only a fleeting glance over her shoulder that she watched them fly off from her feet and go sailing down towards the crowded street below, never to be seen again.

One of them— the left sandal, she had always had a little trouble with the strap— struck Threshya squarely across the chin, sending him barreling into a wall of hanging cutlery and metalwork.

An enormous clatter coupled with a boatload of curses rang sweeter than any of the music cruising through the air. The imp stopped for a breather upon the chimney stoop of one soot-stained building, panting hard. A grin lilted her lips upward as she looked down, watching as pots and iron skillets flew every which way, richly-colored fabrics from a nearby vendor tangled in the mix.

The flesh-merchant jerked his head up, the spikes lining the violet-colored frills on his neck letting off a gleam as he glared daggers up at the impudent imp. “You rat! I’ll slice off yer fingers and eat ‘em like Vienna sausages once I get ahold of you!”

Purposefully ignoring threats to one’s life was surprisingly easy when the one speaking them looked scarcely bigger than a squeaky rodent from three stories up. The yellowed brown tips of the imp’s teeth glinted in the firelight as she replied with a lightning-fast series of hand signals— (Put it on my tab, will you?)

She didn’t wait around to listen for a reply, slipping across the roof and into a new side street within a few minutes’ time. His outraged shrieking was soon swallowed up by the festivities whirling around her, the Jericho-like streets pulsing with motion and the heady scent of cedar smoke crisping on the wind.

This day was one of celebration, in which even the lowest of circles felt confident enough to venture up from the nether districts and into the greater city to sell their wares. Many of them were weirdly shaped and unable to speak in the common tongue, bodies grafted from crustacean shell ceramite and so pale in color that they almost glowed when brought into the light. Blindness may have cast a milky dullness upon their eyes, but their other senses were made all the stronger for it, making them especially dangerous in combat— something which her own circle had learned the hard way in a skirmish over territory.

The circles were usually distinguished from one another by the particular souvenirs they corpse-robbed, but these creatures were different. Instead of stealing things like jawbones, molars, canines, and rotten, cavity-ridden teeth like her clan did, they simply devoured their victims and regurgitated the sticky, acidic remains.

Needless to say, the pale Gorgers had triumphed over the Jawbreakers and were able to muscle in on some prime turf. No one was enthusiastic about being made into a goddamn puddle, which showed good sense in her opinion, and so they pooled the zone caught between the upper city and the canal between them and tried to play nice most of the time. Most of the time.

A dirty string hung from a nearby terraced window, laced with animal teeth that gleamed weakly in the light. Her racing heartbeat slowed, the tension in her muscles loosening like warmed elastic. This was joint Jawbreaker and Gorger territory, she knew, and it would be foolish for one of the Meatgrinders to chase her this close to the canal, though she wouldn’t put it past them to tail her a short ways in just to push their luck.

Pausing by a stand to investigate an amphora made of glass, the imp thumbed the chips of gold in her pocket with a longing sigh. Gorgers always brought fine things to barter with to the surface. The thing was the size of a grandfather’s gin jar, and her fuzzy face was reflected back at her in an amusing, pear-shaped slant from the polished surface. Other goods were littered across the stand, each one endowed with the fluid grace of a musical instrument; tall flute goblets rested on dusty and torn burlap, buttersoft gold adornments scattered in a shimmering array alongside, chiming softly against her claws as she trailed past.

Eyes skirting to look over her shoulder, the short imp ducked her head and slipped away from the stand, ignoring the white crustacean merchant and the way its eye stalks swiveled to track her movements. Yes, she had to keep moving. Gorgers wouldn’t do anything to defend a Jawbreaker, fancy territory treaty or not. She took the nearest series of steps in leaps and bounds, chipped mortar and lazy brickwork winding down, down, down— down to where the canal’s waters stained the city foundations black, hundreds of twisted souls scrabbling in the muck.

Her feet sunk into reddish sediment and slippery silt. A spouted jar with handles was nudged aside by her foot, other pieces of discarded pottery swarming into a broken shoreline of shattered clay, bones and jumbled debris further on. The canal’s walls shimmered with glossy salt minerals— cumulating into a tapestry of veiny quartz-like pinks and sparkly star-specks that made the waterway’s contents glisten and shine— and it would have been positively magnificent if not for the aorta of lifeblood pulsing warmly through it, flecks of it clinging to her toes like soft and gooey pine pitch wherever she stepped.

The river gushed and flowed forward, very nearly steamed, an aorta of red that shot over the rocks like whiskey sings through a barfly’s blood. A stone bridge held firm overhead, shifting bodies and carts crossing over it. Several slender boats dabbled about, hollow knocks from underneath rocking them against the walled sides; countless demons dithered about alongside the canal, bright flare-ups of colored fabric shifting like flamingoes in shallow water. No fiend was the same, some with horns and some without, others with massive spiked crests latched onto their necks or horrible, slavering mandibles, and even a few that seemed to be flat, dark shadows, formless and shifting through the crowds. The incredible diversity to be found in the Underverse was something to marvel at, indeed.

“There!” The imp whirled around at the snarled shout from behind her, face cycling through shock, dismay, and then determination all in a second’s time. Threshya and a few other Meatgrinders had arrived at the stairwell she had just left behind. The sounds of clattering scraps and other rubbish smashing against one another trailed behind her as she ran, the much larger demons moving quickly despite their size.

She skidded to a stop when she reached the bridge, one random passerby jarring into her and hissing a curse before moving on. Her eyes swept frantically around before at last alighting upon something. It seemed that a cart was just about to cross over. The driver was a bizarre, lumpy brute with many faces, and the beast leading the cart might have been an ordinary horse if not for distinct lack of a head above its brawny shoulders and leaning neck.

What the imp was most interested in, however, was the large basin on the back of the cart. Taking a running leap, she briefly swung down beside the screeching spokes and dust before hoisting herself over the rim, only having the time to catch a brief glimpse of Threshya’s snarling face behind her before being dunked inside.

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Continued from A Darkened Destiny.

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]]> <![CDATA[I'm Actually Quite Selfish]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/showthread.php?tid=4580 Sun, 03 Jul 2016 11:41:03 +0000 Tearen Wover]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/showthread.php?tid=4580
Now though, it didn't even have that ironic reminder to bind it back to his old self. Who was Nealaphh anyway? It no longer wanted to be a God, but the idea of being just a mundane tool in the machinery of Omni's universe still did not sit well with it. The middle path had never really suited Nealaphh; it was either fully dedicated or fully abstinent from a course of action or belief. The garden around it was sort of similar in that regard. The plants that had been carefully planted in the brimstone pots were either bursting with vibrant colors or twisted and black. The bleary, red-purple sky over head looked down dolefully on the scene, with the light of countless unnamed and lost orbital bodies lending only a begrudging light to the stillness of the scene.

Nealaphh had been in the Underverse for several hours now, and he had yet to encounter any sort of demon or spectre that wished to torture or disembowel him. Honestly, Nealaphh would have welcomed the reprieve from having to tackle its own thoughts and insecurities. Perhaps the hordes of Diablo aware that leaving it to itself was the greatest torture that could be invoked upon the god-mind.

Or, perhaps, they were just too busy trying to deal with the Arch Dragon Queen that Nealaphh had banished to this forsaken place, not minutes before arriving here itself. Neither possibility was comforting...]]>
Now though, it didn't even have that ironic reminder to bind it back to his old self. Who was Nealaphh anyway? It no longer wanted to be a God, but the idea of being just a mundane tool in the machinery of Omni's universe still did not sit well with it. The middle path had never really suited Nealaphh; it was either fully dedicated or fully abstinent from a course of action or belief. The garden around it was sort of similar in that regard. The plants that had been carefully planted in the brimstone pots were either bursting with vibrant colors or twisted and black. The bleary, red-purple sky over head looked down dolefully on the scene, with the light of countless unnamed and lost orbital bodies lending only a begrudging light to the stillness of the scene.

Nealaphh had been in the Underverse for several hours now, and he had yet to encounter any sort of demon or spectre that wished to torture or disembowel him. Honestly, Nealaphh would have welcomed the reprieve from having to tackle its own thoughts and insecurities. Perhaps the hordes of Diablo aware that leaving it to itself was the greatest torture that could be invoked upon the god-mind.

Or, perhaps, they were just too busy trying to deal with the Arch Dragon Queen that Nealaphh had banished to this forsaken place, not minutes before arriving here itself. Neither possibility was comforting...]]> <![CDATA[Helldiver [M]]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/showthread.php?tid=3936 Sat, 27 Feb 2016 16:53:28 +0000 Storyteller]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/showthread.php?tid=3936 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]]> 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]]> <![CDATA[The Fallen Kings [M]]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/showthread.php?tid=3522 Sun, 10 Jan 2016 18:59:32 +0000 Gilgamesh]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/showthread.php?tid=3522
The King fell to his knees as he could feel his insides dissipating. He felt the crumbly black dust sit and burn at the bottom of his stomach. The searing pain, as if acid was poured upon him, was unbearable. He could feel every fiber of his body being torn away from him. His fingers automatically dug into the ground, needing an outlet for the pain. He looked up at the cur one more time, with more rage than he has ever felt before. He could not let himself be brought down by the insects that crawl beneath his boot.

Gilgamesh tried to speak but the burning pain of his throat being torn apart was too much for him to say anything above a whisper. “I will be back.” He cringed in utter agony as the rest of his body turned into dust and his vision faded to black.

---

His eyes fluttered open upon a blood red sky and his arms in chains. The ground almost seemed as if it was made out of a black soot. Within a split second of coming into consciousness, Gilgamesh began writhing in pain. The steel was glowing a bright red around his limbs was burning his flesh constantly. He screamed into the void but even his voice died out in the endless chasm.

Glowing yellow eyes appeared from the darkness as a small, grey creature appeared from thin air. Its grotesque nails were caked with blood and its disgusting structure made the King want to vomit. It looked as if it had wispy grey hair and it was hunched over with a disgusting, protruding belly. It’s teeth were jagged and uneven and the barbarian had its lower jaw stuck out. This abomination was nothing from the land that the King had previously ruled.

The creature smiled as it saw the King struggling in pain, almost as if he were a trapped bear who had gotten his leg caught. The iron chains stopped burning and Gilgamesh felt a wave of relief. “I see that you’re awake. I was just getting bored, the other one is sadly still unconscious. I now have someone to play with.”

The creature walked over to a pool of lava and pulled out a metal rod that had a foreign insignia on it. A smile curled on his face as he began eying the King’s body. The creature ripped into the King’s armor with ease, tearing a massive hole in the armor and causing it to fall into the ground.

“You dare threaten me! You foul cur with smell the ugly stench of death as I will-”

His elaborate speech was cut off by a scream of pain. The monster stabbed the branding iron right into his chest, causing more of his flesh to burn. The black smoke and smell of charred meat was unbearable and he now had a visible brand of whatever that thing is on his chest.

“How-” The creature stabbed one of its putrid fingers into the King’s stomach. A jolt of pain soared throughout his body.

The creature smiled. “You’re my property now. ” The abomination twirled it’s finger around, lacerating many internal organs before ripping it out of the King’s body. Gilgamesh screamed and he looked at the monster’s atrocious fingers. The sides were barbed and was drenched in blood.

“Oh well look at that. You’re bleeding! Let me take care of that!” The creature jammed the end of the burning, metal rod into the wound. A sick laughter soon ensued as hate filled the creatures eyes.

Gilgamesh let out a primal scream as a gate opened behind him. An array of swords peaked out and the creature’s eyes turned from hate to a brief flicker of fear.

“Th-th-those chains we’re supposed to stop you from using Omnilium.” He turned around and began to run, his grey shape disappearing in the darkness. It seemed the creature turned out to be a coward despite it’s courageous actions.

Gilgamesh screamed as he launched the swords out towards where the unholy abomination was standing. The sound of sword piercing flesh blessed the King’s ears. Four more swords came out and cut the chains that the King was bound by. He dropped to his knees, his golden boots could feel the hatred and the heat that the earth beneath promised. He grabbed one of his nearby swords, as the other’s dissipated into dust, and tore off the chains that had bound him.

He walked over to the fallen creature and with his sword in hand. “Please, give me mer-” The King stabbed the creature in the throat, it’s black blood pouring out of it’s wound. It looked helplessly at Gilgamesh as it began to choke on its own blood. The King’s attacks did not stop. Gilgamesh kneeled over and began to relentlessly stab at the corpse until his blade was coated with blood and its corpse became nothing but an unrecognizable pile of garbage.

Gilgamesh had no words to describe how much rage and hate he felt towards this place as a whole. His expressionless face somehow said it all. He wanted this place to be destroyed bit by bit. He wanted to get out of this hell. He wanted to destroy everything that mouse had remotely cared about. He felt vulnerable and weak. He was no longer the all powerful King of Heroes. He felt helpless here that even the smallest of creatures in this verse could leave such a powerful mark on him.

He began to get up and leave but his strength left him. His arms felt like weights and his legs were now boneless. Blood, Gilgamesh vomited blood everywhere. The pain in his stomach was enormous and he couldn’t help but scream in agony. He couldn’t do anything but sit there and bleed. But Kings aren’t supposed to bleed.]]>
The King fell to his knees as he could feel his insides dissipating. He felt the crumbly black dust sit and burn at the bottom of his stomach. The searing pain, as if acid was poured upon him, was unbearable. He could feel every fiber of his body being torn away from him. His fingers automatically dug into the ground, needing an outlet for the pain. He looked up at the cur one more time, with more rage than he has ever felt before. He could not let himself be brought down by the insects that crawl beneath his boot.

Gilgamesh tried to speak but the burning pain of his throat being torn apart was too much for him to say anything above a whisper. “I will be back.” He cringed in utter agony as the rest of his body turned into dust and his vision faded to black.

---

His eyes fluttered open upon a blood red sky and his arms in chains. The ground almost seemed as if it was made out of a black soot. Within a split second of coming into consciousness, Gilgamesh began writhing in pain. The steel was glowing a bright red around his limbs was burning his flesh constantly. He screamed into the void but even his voice died out in the endless chasm.

Glowing yellow eyes appeared from the darkness as a small, grey creature appeared from thin air. Its grotesque nails were caked with blood and its disgusting structure made the King want to vomit. It looked as if it had wispy grey hair and it was hunched over with a disgusting, protruding belly. It’s teeth were jagged and uneven and the barbarian had its lower jaw stuck out. This abomination was nothing from the land that the King had previously ruled.

The creature smiled as it saw the King struggling in pain, almost as if he were a trapped bear who had gotten his leg caught. The iron chains stopped burning and Gilgamesh felt a wave of relief. “I see that you’re awake. I was just getting bored, the other one is sadly still unconscious. I now have someone to play with.”

The creature walked over to a pool of lava and pulled out a metal rod that had a foreign insignia on it. A smile curled on his face as he began eying the King’s body. The creature ripped into the King’s armor with ease, tearing a massive hole in the armor and causing it to fall into the ground.

“You dare threaten me! You foul cur with smell the ugly stench of death as I will-”

His elaborate speech was cut off by a scream of pain. The monster stabbed the branding iron right into his chest, causing more of his flesh to burn. The black smoke and smell of charred meat was unbearable and he now had a visible brand of whatever that thing is on his chest.

“How-” The creature stabbed one of its putrid fingers into the King’s stomach. A jolt of pain soared throughout his body.

The creature smiled. “You’re my property now. ” The abomination twirled it’s finger around, lacerating many internal organs before ripping it out of the King’s body. Gilgamesh screamed and he looked at the monster’s atrocious fingers. The sides were barbed and was drenched in blood.

“Oh well look at that. You’re bleeding! Let me take care of that!” The creature jammed the end of the burning, metal rod into the wound. A sick laughter soon ensued as hate filled the creatures eyes.

Gilgamesh let out a primal scream as a gate opened behind him. An array of swords peaked out and the creature’s eyes turned from hate to a brief flicker of fear.

“Th-th-those chains we’re supposed to stop you from using Omnilium.” He turned around and began to run, his grey shape disappearing in the darkness. It seemed the creature turned out to be a coward despite it’s courageous actions.

Gilgamesh screamed as he launched the swords out towards where the unholy abomination was standing. The sound of sword piercing flesh blessed the King’s ears. Four more swords came out and cut the chains that the King was bound by. He dropped to his knees, his golden boots could feel the hatred and the heat that the earth beneath promised. He grabbed one of his nearby swords, as the other’s dissipated into dust, and tore off the chains that had bound him.

He walked over to the fallen creature and with his sword in hand. “Please, give me mer-” The King stabbed the creature in the throat, it’s black blood pouring out of it’s wound. It looked helplessly at Gilgamesh as it began to choke on its own blood. The King’s attacks did not stop. Gilgamesh kneeled over and began to relentlessly stab at the corpse until his blade was coated with blood and its corpse became nothing but an unrecognizable pile of garbage.

Gilgamesh had no words to describe how much rage and hate he felt towards this place as a whole. His expressionless face somehow said it all. He wanted this place to be destroyed bit by bit. He wanted to get out of this hell. He wanted to destroy everything that mouse had remotely cared about. He felt vulnerable and weak. He was no longer the all powerful King of Heroes. He felt helpless here that even the smallest of creatures in this verse could leave such a powerful mark on him.

He began to get up and leave but his strength left him. His arms felt like weights and his legs were now boneless. Blood, Gilgamesh vomited blood everywhere. The pain in his stomach was enormous and he couldn’t help but scream in agony. He couldn’t do anything but sit there and bleed. But Kings aren’t supposed to bleed.]]> <![CDATA[[M] Retribution IV: Rebirth]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/showthread.php?tid=2532 Wed, 16 Sep 2015 19:58:16 +0000 Trixie]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/showthread.php?tid=2532
The bowstring snapped again and another arrow was in flight. In one graceful move Trixie snapped the arrow she had in her hand in two and threw the tip at her opponent's leg. Spinning around to meet the oncoming arrow she placed the palm of her hand to the flat part of her gladius and met the arrow with the broad side of the blade. With an upwards motion she deflected the arrow into the stands where it struck a food vendor. The crowd erupted into both laughter and cheers. The vendor was mugged for his edible merchandise and currency.

With a smirk Trixie watch as her marksman arena enemy pulled his previously launched arrowhead from his thigh. Stumbling backward he drew and knocked another arrow just as the now white haired mistress charged. Blood would be spilled and Beatrix would do anything to achieve it. The marksman loosed his arrow and with a fleshy thud it landed just under his enemies left collarbone, but it did nothing to halt the progress of her stampede. Blood sprayed Trixie in the face as she drove her sword upward through his abdomen and under his ribs. Twisting the blade she pierced through his back side. Not satisfied she ripped the arrow from her shoulder and plunged it into his eye socket before wrenching his head to the side. Exposing her newly grown fangs she bit down hard on his neck and ripped his throat out. Blood gushed from the open wound, covering the both of them. With an enraged battle cry Trixie pushed her dying opponent to the ground.

As his blood pooled on the sand covered arena floor the spectators stood to cheer for her victory. A horn signalled the end of the match and the gates built into the walls of the ring opened. Sia Morelli, head of security for the female pit fighters, exited from beneath the stands to escort Trixie back to the holding area. She was wielding her trademark bat and being followed by her hand chosen bodyguards.

“Prisoner 11256, congratulations on your victory. Come with me back to holding.” Sia commanded as she unleashed a nasty swing to the back of the white haired mistress’ head.

With a snap of her fingers Sia’s guards carried the unconscious Trixie towards the exit of the ring. A brilliant display of colours flashed before the indentured warrior as she was bludgeoned into a deep slumber. Beatrix saw Nova crying in her apartment, the battle where she was sucked into wherever she currently presided. It was all violently erased by the permanent scowl of that woman who looked just like her. Those glowing pink eyes. She had seemed to know something about what was happening.

Those eyes. ]]>
The bowstring snapped again and another arrow was in flight. In one graceful move Trixie snapped the arrow she had in her hand in two and threw the tip at her opponent's leg. Spinning around to meet the oncoming arrow she placed the palm of her hand to the flat part of her gladius and met the arrow with the broad side of the blade. With an upwards motion she deflected the arrow into the stands where it struck a food vendor. The crowd erupted into both laughter and cheers. The vendor was mugged for his edible merchandise and currency.

With a smirk Trixie watch as her marksman arena enemy pulled his previously launched arrowhead from his thigh. Stumbling backward he drew and knocked another arrow just as the now white haired mistress charged. Blood would be spilled and Beatrix would do anything to achieve it. The marksman loosed his arrow and with a fleshy thud it landed just under his enemies left collarbone, but it did nothing to halt the progress of her stampede. Blood sprayed Trixie in the face as she drove her sword upward through his abdomen and under his ribs. Twisting the blade she pierced through his back side. Not satisfied she ripped the arrow from her shoulder and plunged it into his eye socket before wrenching his head to the side. Exposing her newly grown fangs she bit down hard on his neck and ripped his throat out. Blood gushed from the open wound, covering the both of them. With an enraged battle cry Trixie pushed her dying opponent to the ground.

As his blood pooled on the sand covered arena floor the spectators stood to cheer for her victory. A horn signalled the end of the match and the gates built into the walls of the ring opened. Sia Morelli, head of security for the female pit fighters, exited from beneath the stands to escort Trixie back to the holding area. She was wielding her trademark bat and being followed by her hand chosen bodyguards.

“Prisoner 11256, congratulations on your victory. Come with me back to holding.” Sia commanded as she unleashed a nasty swing to the back of the white haired mistress’ head.

With a snap of her fingers Sia’s guards carried the unconscious Trixie towards the exit of the ring. A brilliant display of colours flashed before the indentured warrior as she was bludgeoned into a deep slumber. Beatrix saw Nova crying in her apartment, the battle where she was sucked into wherever she currently presided. It was all violently erased by the permanent scowl of that woman who looked just like her. Those glowing pink eyes. She had seemed to know something about what was happening.

Those eyes. ]]> <![CDATA[No Sunshine in Hell]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/showthread.php?tid=2452 Sat, 05 Sep 2015 02:48:45 +0000 Shang Tsung]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/showthread.php?tid=2452
The paladin groaned into the dusty red earth and tried to wait through the ringing in his head. When he could finally lift his head without feeling as if it would explode, he saw that he wasn’t in Silent Hill anymore.

No… This was far worse.

With his knees planted into the barren soil, Argento Camarinos shifted into an upright position. Memories flashed into his mind—a lab, the sorcerer, and then …a terrible pain in his neck. Although he knew the vile truth, there was a part of him that would be unwilling to accept the fact that he may have been betrayed by one of his allies. What would motivate a man to stab his friend in the neck when his back was turned?

Metal fingers clenched and unclenched as Argento tried to wrap his mind around it. There was no world in which he could fathom allies betraying one another. His codex of morals had no space in it for betrayals of any sort.

But this wasn’t just any betrayal…

This was the Underverse.

“Sorcerer, what have you done?” Argento whispered as he looked up at the red skies. Black and gray clouds filled what would otherwise have been a sea of crimson. In the distance, a thunderstorm was brewing near what appeared to be a settlement of some sort. A naked fist reached behind his back and grasped only at air. The paladin was without shield or hammer, and most of his armor was gone, having been discarded after suffering gross damage at the hands of Tyrant.

Have I been forsaken? Argento thought to himself as he stared back up at the sky. There was no sun up there, yet the skies were not pitch-black. Would the paladin have to endure this trial without his beloved one?

For the first time in a long while, the Champion of Darkshire felt entirely too human.

He felt afraid.]]>
The paladin groaned into the dusty red earth and tried to wait through the ringing in his head. When he could finally lift his head without feeling as if it would explode, he saw that he wasn’t in Silent Hill anymore.

No… This was far worse.

With his knees planted into the barren soil, Argento Camarinos shifted into an upright position. Memories flashed into his mind—a lab, the sorcerer, and then …a terrible pain in his neck. Although he knew the vile truth, there was a part of him that would be unwilling to accept the fact that he may have been betrayed by one of his allies. What would motivate a man to stab his friend in the neck when his back was turned?

Metal fingers clenched and unclenched as Argento tried to wrap his mind around it. There was no world in which he could fathom allies betraying one another. His codex of morals had no space in it for betrayals of any sort.

But this wasn’t just any betrayal…

This was the Underverse.

“Sorcerer, what have you done?” Argento whispered as he looked up at the red skies. Black and gray clouds filled what would otherwise have been a sea of crimson. In the distance, a thunderstorm was brewing near what appeared to be a settlement of some sort. A naked fist reached behind his back and grasped only at air. The paladin was without shield or hammer, and most of his armor was gone, having been discarded after suffering gross damage at the hands of Tyrant.

Have I been forsaken? Argento thought to himself as he stared back up at the sky. There was no sun up there, yet the skies were not pitch-black. Would the paladin have to endure this trial without his beloved one?

For the first time in a long while, the Champion of Darkshire felt entirely too human.

He felt afraid.]]> <![CDATA[[M] The Darkness Down Below]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/showthread.php?tid=1612 Mon, 01 Jun 2015 09:03:40 +0000 Violet]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/showthread.php?tid=1612
The abyss, it seems, had banished her to some sort of purgatory. Well, no, more like Victor Wolfe, that imp of a boy, banished her. She put some trust in him and he literally stabbed her in the back. Ironic, considering she’d been mulling over her trust issues all morning, and the moment she finally opened up to allowing herself to add to the group, to add safety to their numbers, it backfired.

She only had herself to blame, ultimately. This is what happened when you put trust in the wrong hands. The dog you fed will turn and bite yours right off. Mr. Wolfe was definitely on her shitlist. Game or no game, he had to have known what would have happened. How anybody could do such a thing to another person was beyond her, then again, she’d had to do some pretty crazy things herself to survive. The only difference was that she didn’t have to backstab someone to do it. Morals were a very subjective thing, apparently.

Her body completed the phasing in a matter of seconds, and wherever she was, it definitely wasn’t the lobby of Dante’s Abyss. It was a sort of palace, with red marble walls that shone like glass. Recesses were placed in calculated intervals, and what appeared to be lava flowed within them. Above her, a domed ceiling stretched upwards, with support beams that were hewn from black obsidian and carved in intricate curves and abstract figures. Nearly everything had a touch of gold flecked into it. Soft white light illuminated the dome and the room, glinting off of the gold flecks and making them sparkle like a million little diamonds.

The opulence boggled her. Where the hell was she?

The smell confused her even more. It was some sort of mixture between cookies and burnt caramel. She could taste it in the back of her throat, and there, she caught a little bit of something else…something noxious.

Violet made her way towards a far entryway that was framed in delicately carved ivory. Figures in various poses twisted their way up and around the framework, with jewels of different kinds worked in to accentuate what was starting to appear like a series of scenes. As she moved closer, her fingers running over the smooth material, she felt a strange energy pulsing just beneath the surface. It hummed along her fingers, down her arm, and up to her shoulder, sort of like a very mild electrical shock. The figures, she noticed, were not just random scenes, they were various poses of murder. One figure held another, its arm deep within the other’s chest. The head lulled to the side, nearly cut off. In another set of figures, half of one’s head was missing, while the other, with horns that seemed too big for its head, smiled with devilish glee. Her eyes roved over the other scenes, but she forced her gaze away.

Who the hell puts scenes of such gruesomeness in a place like this?

She began to walk quickly down a marble lined hallway, towards what appeared to be a split in the pathway. She took the left, and found herself looking down an even longer hall, this one narrow like those found in a cheap hotel. Big enough for a few people to walk abreast, but not much else. Doors were dispersed at even intervals, closed off to prying eyes. She doubted either of these was a way out, and probably didn’t lead to anything interesting. She skipped them and continued on, finding herself at another branch of hallways.

On and on it continued, branch after branch opened before her, seemingly giving her a choice, all promising to lead somewhere, but none of them lead anywhere except back to that strange room with the carved ivory framework, except now she was on the other side of where she started. It seemed it was just one big rectangle of pathways, regardless of what direction she took. She was only a little concerned. Okay, maybe a lot concerned. Was she just being obtuse, or was she just having bad luck with these pathways?

“Hello?” she finally called out. Perhaps someone would hear her and help her out. There was no reply, but she tried again a few more times, venturing towards the endless hallways of doors. Did the Abyss just goof and drop her off in an abandoned maze? It was a nice (sort of) maze, but a maze nonetheless. There should have been exit signs at least. The Fire Marshal would have a field day with this place.

The cookies and burnt sugar smell suddenly became overwhelming, and she lifted her shirt to cover her nose. “Christ, what the hell is that?”

Chuckling. Deep, masculine. Taunting.

“Hello?”

Silence. Her heart sped its beat just a little bit.

“Can we cut the creepy shit, please? Where am I?”

A cool breeze blew by her, ruffling her shirt. Where did that come from? Violet jerked her head around, looking for anything that would betray something or someone.

Then, before she could even process what was happening, the room plunged into darkness. Pure blackness enveloped her, and just as her panic began to increase, hands groped at her, pulling her backwards, encircling her. She let out a scream, but was cut off by a wad of cloth. She was being dragged by something, and by the ease in which they did so meant that whatever it was, it was large.

A door opened, and the breeze brushed her face as the door shut. The thing that drug her didn’t even stop, which meant someone else had opened it and closed it for them. Oh, Kami, what the hell did she get into?

Something hard and metallic was locked around her wrists, and then the distinct sound of chains. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Her mind and heart both raced as they tried to make sense of what was happening. She felt the chains wrap around her ankles, holding them in place. In one swift jerk, she was suddenly lifted off the floor and hung by the chains at her wrists.

A hand, large and rough, swept up her body, pausing in places that seemed to interest them. They hovered long over the edge of her ribcage and belly, playing along that bit of bone tenderly. Lips smacked loud and wet. More hands followed suit, three, four…eight hands. They tugged at her clothing, pulling it free from her jeans and running along the soft, bare flesh beneath.

“No…no…no!” she screamed as they all violated her person. Hands ripped and tore at her, peeling the thin material away from her body. They seemed to have trouble with the jeans, but those were only a momentary hindrance as one of the bigger hands balled into the thicker material and ripped it away.
The chains that held her hung against her bare skin, cold and unfeeling. She was fully exposed to whatever it was that lurked in the darkness.

The hands were so rough as they touched and poked along her flesh. Her eyes began to burn with tears that refused to fall. She would kill Victor if it was the last thing she ever did, one way or another!

Just as a scream began to bubble within her chest, fighting the tightness that constricted her throat, bright white light flooded the room, and she was suddenly face to face with monsters. She screamed.]]>
The abyss, it seems, had banished her to some sort of purgatory. Well, no, more like Victor Wolfe, that imp of a boy, banished her. She put some trust in him and he literally stabbed her in the back. Ironic, considering she’d been mulling over her trust issues all morning, and the moment she finally opened up to allowing herself to add to the group, to add safety to their numbers, it backfired.

She only had herself to blame, ultimately. This is what happened when you put trust in the wrong hands. The dog you fed will turn and bite yours right off. Mr. Wolfe was definitely on her shitlist. Game or no game, he had to have known what would have happened. How anybody could do such a thing to another person was beyond her, then again, she’d had to do some pretty crazy things herself to survive. The only difference was that she didn’t have to backstab someone to do it. Morals were a very subjective thing, apparently.

Her body completed the phasing in a matter of seconds, and wherever she was, it definitely wasn’t the lobby of Dante’s Abyss. It was a sort of palace, with red marble walls that shone like glass. Recesses were placed in calculated intervals, and what appeared to be lava flowed within them. Above her, a domed ceiling stretched upwards, with support beams that were hewn from black obsidian and carved in intricate curves and abstract figures. Nearly everything had a touch of gold flecked into it. Soft white light illuminated the dome and the room, glinting off of the gold flecks and making them sparkle like a million little diamonds.

The opulence boggled her. Where the hell was she?

The smell confused her even more. It was some sort of mixture between cookies and burnt caramel. She could taste it in the back of her throat, and there, she caught a little bit of something else…something noxious.

Violet made her way towards a far entryway that was framed in delicately carved ivory. Figures in various poses twisted their way up and around the framework, with jewels of different kinds worked in to accentuate what was starting to appear like a series of scenes. As she moved closer, her fingers running over the smooth material, she felt a strange energy pulsing just beneath the surface. It hummed along her fingers, down her arm, and up to her shoulder, sort of like a very mild electrical shock. The figures, she noticed, were not just random scenes, they were various poses of murder. One figure held another, its arm deep within the other’s chest. The head lulled to the side, nearly cut off. In another set of figures, half of one’s head was missing, while the other, with horns that seemed too big for its head, smiled with devilish glee. Her eyes roved over the other scenes, but she forced her gaze away.

Who the hell puts scenes of such gruesomeness in a place like this?

She began to walk quickly down a marble lined hallway, towards what appeared to be a split in the pathway. She took the left, and found herself looking down an even longer hall, this one narrow like those found in a cheap hotel. Big enough for a few people to walk abreast, but not much else. Doors were dispersed at even intervals, closed off to prying eyes. She doubted either of these was a way out, and probably didn’t lead to anything interesting. She skipped them and continued on, finding herself at another branch of hallways.

On and on it continued, branch after branch opened before her, seemingly giving her a choice, all promising to lead somewhere, but none of them lead anywhere except back to that strange room with the carved ivory framework, except now she was on the other side of where she started. It seemed it was just one big rectangle of pathways, regardless of what direction she took. She was only a little concerned. Okay, maybe a lot concerned. Was she just being obtuse, or was she just having bad luck with these pathways?

“Hello?” she finally called out. Perhaps someone would hear her and help her out. There was no reply, but she tried again a few more times, venturing towards the endless hallways of doors. Did the Abyss just goof and drop her off in an abandoned maze? It was a nice (sort of) maze, but a maze nonetheless. There should have been exit signs at least. The Fire Marshal would have a field day with this place.

The cookies and burnt sugar smell suddenly became overwhelming, and she lifted her shirt to cover her nose. “Christ, what the hell is that?”

Chuckling. Deep, masculine. Taunting.

“Hello?”

Silence. Her heart sped its beat just a little bit.

“Can we cut the creepy shit, please? Where am I?”

A cool breeze blew by her, ruffling her shirt. Where did that come from? Violet jerked her head around, looking for anything that would betray something or someone.

Then, before she could even process what was happening, the room plunged into darkness. Pure blackness enveloped her, and just as her panic began to increase, hands groped at her, pulling her backwards, encircling her. She let out a scream, but was cut off by a wad of cloth. She was being dragged by something, and by the ease in which they did so meant that whatever it was, it was large.

A door opened, and the breeze brushed her face as the door shut. The thing that drug her didn’t even stop, which meant someone else had opened it and closed it for them. Oh, Kami, what the hell did she get into?

Something hard and metallic was locked around her wrists, and then the distinct sound of chains. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Her mind and heart both raced as they tried to make sense of what was happening. She felt the chains wrap around her ankles, holding them in place. In one swift jerk, she was suddenly lifted off the floor and hung by the chains at her wrists.

A hand, large and rough, swept up her body, pausing in places that seemed to interest them. They hovered long over the edge of her ribcage and belly, playing along that bit of bone tenderly. Lips smacked loud and wet. More hands followed suit, three, four…eight hands. They tugged at her clothing, pulling it free from her jeans and running along the soft, bare flesh beneath.

“No…no…no!” she screamed as they all violated her person. Hands ripped and tore at her, peeling the thin material away from her body. They seemed to have trouble with the jeans, but those were only a momentary hindrance as one of the bigger hands balled into the thicker material and ripped it away.
The chains that held her hung against her bare skin, cold and unfeeling. She was fully exposed to whatever it was that lurked in the darkness.

The hands were so rough as they touched and poked along her flesh. Her eyes began to burn with tears that refused to fall. She would kill Victor if it was the last thing she ever did, one way or another!

Just as a scream began to bubble within her chest, fighting the tightness that constricted her throat, bright white light flooded the room, and she was suddenly face to face with monsters. She screamed.]]> <![CDATA[The Underverse Information]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/showthread.php?tid=24 Sat, 03 Aug 2013 02:25:13 +0000 Omni]]> https://omni.zulenka.com/showthread.php?tid=24
Subzones

The Central Hellscape

A nickname given to the central region of the Underverse. A plateau the size of county that looks out over the rest of the Underverse, the ‘central hellpscape’ is Diablo’s personal domain. This region contains his grand gladiatorial arena, the black palace (from which one can see the ‘Eye of Diablo’ -- a burning red eye atop the tallest tower that can see for hundreds of miles), and the Pandemonium Fortress. Horrible factories that devour flesh and spew out terrifying amalgamations of flesh and machinery can also be found here, as well as terrifying spawning pools host to the foulest lifeforms imaginable.

Hell in the most ‘traditional’ sense of the word, this is a place of fire and blood and agony. ‘Cities’ dot the hellscape, and it is often (but not always) in this region that most freshly banished individuals find themselves. They are often captured amid their initial confusion, from which they are either sold to arenas, tortured, eaten, or any fate worse than those.

The following NPCs are centered in the Central Hellscape: Diablo

The Necropolita of Dis

The Lesser Evils (Andarial, Durial, Azmodan, Belial) are the name of four powerful secondaries created by Diablo. They claim to have been ‘the first’ created by the Lord of Terror. Despite such apparent prestige, they are rarely treated well by their Lord. They seem to be a source of amusement and ridicule for Diablo, which is rumored to originate in their old world.

Even so, the four jointly rule over the City of Dis, a hellish metropolis of demons and undead and cursed souls located just a few days west of the central hellscape. While many smaller cities can be found in the Central Hellscape, Dis is often called the capital of the Underverse due to its size and scale. Multiple 'cultures' can be found in the city -- hellish mockeries of various worlds both futuristic and fantastical. The Lesser Evils dominate areas that often start to take on their own personality quirks, whether those be related to sadism, treachery, or other foul sins. The four demon lords are rarely in concert with one another, despite the fact that Durial and Andarial are fraternal twins. They are constantly bickering and arguing and using proxies to debase and undermine the others’ designs, making this massive city of damned souls feel like no more than the Machiavellian playground of the quartet of demons.

The following NPCs are found in the City of Dis: The Lesser Evils

The Despoiled Dreamscape

To the east of the central hellscape is a broken land of misery and chaos. Solid ground rarely remains solid, with gravity being something that comes and goes. The kingdom of Tevinter, a land of warlocks and witches exercising great power, used to be centered in this area. When the magic-wielders' egos became too strong, they started to exert too much autonomy and many say they even began to scheme against Diablo. To showcase his iron rule, he shattered their kingdom into a thousand pieces. Because of the floating chunks of land and the erratic gravity, this land has become known as the ‘dreamscape.’ Remains of civilization can be found every so often, although most are uninhabited ruins of a once ‘exquisite’ demonic capital. Some of the demon tribes from this area still linger, although they never linger in one place for fear of the beasts that sprung up from the devastation of the magic-infused kingdom. These twisted, hellish beasts are said to devour prime and secondary alike--driving them to madness before consuming them.

The demon lord in this region is the Mari Lwyd, a prime that was said to have been an advisor in the old demon kingdom in the region. Now the Mari Lwyd dresses in simple robes and wears a mare’s skeleton to conceal his features. Diablo’s only confident in the region, the Mari Lwyd is responsible for ensuring that the region remains as it has been since its sundering. Despite rumor links to the tribes, the Mari Lwyd does its job with a surgical grace, slaying upstarts and anyone who would try to consolidate power in the region.

Chaos shall always reign supreme in the land of broken dreams.

The following NPCs are centered in the Despoiled Dreamscape: The Mari Lwyd

The Acid Baths

‘Bath’ is the wrong term, for the ‘Acid Baths’ is an ocean of putrid, boiling acid. The shores of the Acid Baths can be reached by going a few days southwest of the central hellscape. From there, the acid baths extend hundreds of miles due southwest before widening into an ocean of unknown dimensions.

If one can construct a vessel that is resistant to the corrosive nature of the oceans here, they can do an equally moronic thing and delve into the unknown. The Acid Baths are host to a variety of hellish monsters that lurk in the translucent darkness underneath the frothy, bubbling surfaces. The further one travels, the thicker the air becomes, until it is like a thick, oppressive soup that is said to become just as corrosive as the liquid below. Despite all of this, sentient creatures can still be found out there or along the shores of the Acid Baths. It is said that this is a popular spot for primes attempting to elude capture.

The closest thing to an authority figure in this region of the Underverse is Davy Jones, a privateer that has become more cephalopod than human. He hunts wayward souls out in the Acid Baths--dragging some back to Diablo and torturing others for his own pleasantries. Long has this pirate plundered this region that even his ship, influenced by his own corruption, has become like a living monster forged from wood, coral, and underwater plantlife. The ship is said to submerge itself under the filth of the Acid Baths and emerge miles away moments later, such is the legend of the Flying Dutchman. The crew of the Flying Dutchman, some conscripted and others willing volunteers, rapidly lose their outward humanity as they give into their darker natures, becoming monstrous much like their captain. Because of his dark duties, the insidious Davy Jones has close ties with Diablo, but are you willing to risk your very soul to gain his respect?

The following NPCs are centered in the Acid Baths: Captain Davy Jones

The Black Morass

Southeast of the central hellscape is a landscape of marshes and bogs that stretches as far as the eyes can see. If one goes a few weeks into the morass, they will find the Black Gate--the very passageway that Diablo used to enter the Pale Moors. That also means that this was the place where the Kingdom’s primes entered the Underverse to battle Diablo before Tyrael’s sacrifice to sever the connection between the Underverse and the Omniverse.

This Black Gate, like its counterpart in the Omniverse, stands dead, but its existence stands as a testament to Diablo’s power. Many banished primes and secondaries have tried (and failed) to use the Black Gate as a means to get back into the Omniverse. The skeletons and corpses that litter the area tell of their fates.

The Black Morass is relatively devoid of life. Stories state that much of what was once here funnelled into the Pale Moors following the opening of the Black Gate. As much as we are told that the Moors were poisoned, it is ironic that such action caused this region of the Underverse to shrivel and decay. Despite the wretched nature of the Pale Moors, the Black Morass is strangely enough, one of the least despicable places in the Underverse. If not for the roving patrols and the occasional releasing of ‘seeker beasts’ to catch runaways, the Morass could almost feel like a ‘normal’ place.

The following NPCs are centered in the Black Morass: Scylla

The Salt Flats

Northwest of the central hellscape is an arid expanse that rumors say was once another ocean of some sorts. It is unknown is there is any credibility to this story, but regardless of its validity (or lack there of), the Salt Flats stretch on for aons--a drab, endless nothing that sparkles with the minerals that comprise its surface. There is no wildlife to be found, and the sparkling white landscape often hides many dangers to ‘travelers.’ Thick, inescapable quagmires of mud hide beneath the salt and mineral surface, and there are rumors that giant monsters lurk beneath the surface. A demon once spoke off ‘a giant mouth with rows of teeth’ opening up from beneath the salt flats and devouring everything that could not escape falling down into the blackness below.

Aside from these subterranean dangers, the salt flats are host to a terrifying mobile force of hellions. Led by a powerful warlock, this ‘tribe’ scours the salt flats for individuals trying to escape perdition. It is said that this tribe is based in a fortress deep in the shimmering wastes.

The following NPCs are based in the Salt Flats: Immortan Joe

The Emerald Nightmare

To the northeast of the central hellscape is what a passerby might call ‘a jungle.’ Those who venture into this ‘jungle’ rarely return.

There is no sunlight in the Emerald Nightmare. There is only blackness and almost blackness. The things that lurk in the shadows hunger for your blood. The only law in this region is to be the predator. You are either the predator, or your are the prey. Never let your senses dull. Never let your guard down. Never sleep. Sleep and you will wake up to the sound of some eldritch abomination tearing into your soft parts.

It is said that, long ago, a civilization existed out there in the Emerald Nightmare. A group of hardy demons and rugged souls that wanted to defy the odds. If one goes far enough, they may find the ruins of Kurast, whose inhabitants are believed to have succumbed to the jungle.

Worse perhaps than the monsters that roam the Emerald Nightmare are the individuals that go there to kill themselves. Secondaries, whether they’re cursed to the Underverse or on the run, will often chose this jungle as a place to end their lives. Primes, often those at the end of their rope, will often come here to kill themselves, hoping that murdering themselves in this forlorn place will allow them absolution from the horrors of the Underverse and Omniverse alike. Because of this ‘recreational use’ of the Emerald Nightmare, it is not uncommon for the ‘remains’ of the dead to haunt the living.

The Magma Chamber

To the north of the central hellscape is a single volcano that towers over everything in the Underverse. Known as the ‘Magma Chamber,’ this country-sized mountain seeps and spews magma from various cracks and fissures in its surface. Rumors say that, if Diablo willed it, he could cause the Magma Chamber to erupt, resulting in the entire Underverse being buried beneath miles of lava and fallout.

If one is ‘brave’ (ie - stupid) enough to ascend the Magma Chamber, they must be aware that the atmosphere is thick with ash and the temperature is enough to deliver third-degree burns to even the most resilient of demons. There’s also the matter of the helldrakes that have begun to populate the super mountain. The arrival of a creature known Volvagia has caused the Magma Chamber to become gradually infested with her spawn. It is said that the banished dragon was imbued with a great power by Diablo, twisting her form into something hellish and nightmarish.

The following NPCs are centered in the Magma Chamber: Volvagia

The Frozen Wastes

To the south of the central hellscape, the temperatures drop down cold enough to freeze most living things solid within a matter of hours. Mountains of frozen rock dominate the landscape, but even at ‘base’ elevation, the oxygen is thin and breaths are hard to find. The Frozen Wastes is littered with the frozen corpses of demons and damned souls alike--fools too stupid to prepare themselves for ‘the adventure’ (or, more aptly, their attempt to escape perdition or domination by other demonic entities). There are many frozen ruins amid this landscape, including a large city that some say Diablo froze solid after their leaders attempted to exert too much independent thought.

Like many of the sparsely populated regions of the Underverse, the Frozen Wastes is home to a handful of wayward individuals.]]>
Subzones

The Central Hellscape

A nickname given to the central region of the Underverse. A plateau the size of county that looks out over the rest of the Underverse, the ‘central hellpscape’ is Diablo’s personal domain. This region contains his grand gladiatorial arena, the black palace (from which one can see the ‘Eye of Diablo’ -- a burning red eye atop the tallest tower that can see for hundreds of miles), and the Pandemonium Fortress. Horrible factories that devour flesh and spew out terrifying amalgamations of flesh and machinery can also be found here, as well as terrifying spawning pools host to the foulest lifeforms imaginable.

Hell in the most ‘traditional’ sense of the word, this is a place of fire and blood and agony. ‘Cities’ dot the hellscape, and it is often (but not always) in this region that most freshly banished individuals find themselves. They are often captured amid their initial confusion, from which they are either sold to arenas, tortured, eaten, or any fate worse than those.

The following NPCs are centered in the Central Hellscape: Diablo

The Necropolita of Dis

The Lesser Evils (Andarial, Durial, Azmodan, Belial) are the name of four powerful secondaries created by Diablo. They claim to have been ‘the first’ created by the Lord of Terror. Despite such apparent prestige, they are rarely treated well by their Lord. They seem to be a source of amusement and ridicule for Diablo, which is rumored to originate in their old world.

Even so, the four jointly rule over the City of Dis, a hellish metropolis of demons and undead and cursed souls located just a few days west of the central hellscape. While many smaller cities can be found in the Central Hellscape, Dis is often called the capital of the Underverse due to its size and scale. Multiple 'cultures' can be found in the city -- hellish mockeries of various worlds both futuristic and fantastical. The Lesser Evils dominate areas that often start to take on their own personality quirks, whether those be related to sadism, treachery, or other foul sins. The four demon lords are rarely in concert with one another, despite the fact that Durial and Andarial are fraternal twins. They are constantly bickering and arguing and using proxies to debase and undermine the others’ designs, making this massive city of damned souls feel like no more than the Machiavellian playground of the quartet of demons.

The following NPCs are found in the City of Dis: The Lesser Evils

The Despoiled Dreamscape

To the east of the central hellscape is a broken land of misery and chaos. Solid ground rarely remains solid, with gravity being something that comes and goes. The kingdom of Tevinter, a land of warlocks and witches exercising great power, used to be centered in this area. When the magic-wielders' egos became too strong, they started to exert too much autonomy and many say they even began to scheme against Diablo. To showcase his iron rule, he shattered their kingdom into a thousand pieces. Because of the floating chunks of land and the erratic gravity, this land has become known as the ‘dreamscape.’ Remains of civilization can be found every so often, although most are uninhabited ruins of a once ‘exquisite’ demonic capital. Some of the demon tribes from this area still linger, although they never linger in one place for fear of the beasts that sprung up from the devastation of the magic-infused kingdom. These twisted, hellish beasts are said to devour prime and secondary alike--driving them to madness before consuming them.

The demon lord in this region is the Mari Lwyd, a prime that was said to have been an advisor in the old demon kingdom in the region. Now the Mari Lwyd dresses in simple robes and wears a mare’s skeleton to conceal his features. Diablo’s only confident in the region, the Mari Lwyd is responsible for ensuring that the region remains as it has been since its sundering. Despite rumor links to the tribes, the Mari Lwyd does its job with a surgical grace, slaying upstarts and anyone who would try to consolidate power in the region.

Chaos shall always reign supreme in the land of broken dreams.

The following NPCs are centered in the Despoiled Dreamscape: The Mari Lwyd

The Acid Baths

‘Bath’ is the wrong term, for the ‘Acid Baths’ is an ocean of putrid, boiling acid. The shores of the Acid Baths can be reached by going a few days southwest of the central hellscape. From there, the acid baths extend hundreds of miles due southwest before widening into an ocean of unknown dimensions.

If one can construct a vessel that is resistant to the corrosive nature of the oceans here, they can do an equally moronic thing and delve into the unknown. The Acid Baths are host to a variety of hellish monsters that lurk in the translucent darkness underneath the frothy, bubbling surfaces. The further one travels, the thicker the air becomes, until it is like a thick, oppressive soup that is said to become just as corrosive as the liquid below. Despite all of this, sentient creatures can still be found out there or along the shores of the Acid Baths. It is said that this is a popular spot for primes attempting to elude capture.

The closest thing to an authority figure in this region of the Underverse is Davy Jones, a privateer that has become more cephalopod than human. He hunts wayward souls out in the Acid Baths--dragging some back to Diablo and torturing others for his own pleasantries. Long has this pirate plundered this region that even his ship, influenced by his own corruption, has become like a living monster forged from wood, coral, and underwater plantlife. The ship is said to submerge itself under the filth of the Acid Baths and emerge miles away moments later, such is the legend of the Flying Dutchman. The crew of the Flying Dutchman, some conscripted and others willing volunteers, rapidly lose their outward humanity as they give into their darker natures, becoming monstrous much like their captain. Because of his dark duties, the insidious Davy Jones has close ties with Diablo, but are you willing to risk your very soul to gain his respect?

The following NPCs are centered in the Acid Baths: Captain Davy Jones

The Black Morass

Southeast of the central hellscape is a landscape of marshes and bogs that stretches as far as the eyes can see. If one goes a few weeks into the morass, they will find the Black Gate--the very passageway that Diablo used to enter the Pale Moors. That also means that this was the place where the Kingdom’s primes entered the Underverse to battle Diablo before Tyrael’s sacrifice to sever the connection between the Underverse and the Omniverse.

This Black Gate, like its counterpart in the Omniverse, stands dead, but its existence stands as a testament to Diablo’s power. Many banished primes and secondaries have tried (and failed) to use the Black Gate as a means to get back into the Omniverse. The skeletons and corpses that litter the area tell of their fates.

The Black Morass is relatively devoid of life. Stories state that much of what was once here funnelled into the Pale Moors following the opening of the Black Gate. As much as we are told that the Moors were poisoned, it is ironic that such action caused this region of the Underverse to shrivel and decay. Despite the wretched nature of the Pale Moors, the Black Morass is strangely enough, one of the least despicable places in the Underverse. If not for the roving patrols and the occasional releasing of ‘seeker beasts’ to catch runaways, the Morass could almost feel like a ‘normal’ place.

The following NPCs are centered in the Black Morass: Scylla

The Salt Flats

Northwest of the central hellscape is an arid expanse that rumors say was once another ocean of some sorts. It is unknown is there is any credibility to this story, but regardless of its validity (or lack there of), the Salt Flats stretch on for aons--a drab, endless nothing that sparkles with the minerals that comprise its surface. There is no wildlife to be found, and the sparkling white landscape often hides many dangers to ‘travelers.’ Thick, inescapable quagmires of mud hide beneath the salt and mineral surface, and there are rumors that giant monsters lurk beneath the surface. A demon once spoke off ‘a giant mouth with rows of teeth’ opening up from beneath the salt flats and devouring everything that could not escape falling down into the blackness below.

Aside from these subterranean dangers, the salt flats are host to a terrifying mobile force of hellions. Led by a powerful warlock, this ‘tribe’ scours the salt flats for individuals trying to escape perdition. It is said that this tribe is based in a fortress deep in the shimmering wastes.

The following NPCs are based in the Salt Flats: Immortan Joe

The Emerald Nightmare

To the northeast of the central hellscape is what a passerby might call ‘a jungle.’ Those who venture into this ‘jungle’ rarely return.

There is no sunlight in the Emerald Nightmare. There is only blackness and almost blackness. The things that lurk in the shadows hunger for your blood. The only law in this region is to be the predator. You are either the predator, or your are the prey. Never let your senses dull. Never let your guard down. Never sleep. Sleep and you will wake up to the sound of some eldritch abomination tearing into your soft parts.

It is said that, long ago, a civilization existed out there in the Emerald Nightmare. A group of hardy demons and rugged souls that wanted to defy the odds. If one goes far enough, they may find the ruins of Kurast, whose inhabitants are believed to have succumbed to the jungle.

Worse perhaps than the monsters that roam the Emerald Nightmare are the individuals that go there to kill themselves. Secondaries, whether they’re cursed to the Underverse or on the run, will often chose this jungle as a place to end their lives. Primes, often those at the end of their rope, will often come here to kill themselves, hoping that murdering themselves in this forlorn place will allow them absolution from the horrors of the Underverse and Omniverse alike. Because of this ‘recreational use’ of the Emerald Nightmare, it is not uncommon for the ‘remains’ of the dead to haunt the living.

The Magma Chamber

To the north of the central hellscape is a single volcano that towers over everything in the Underverse. Known as the ‘Magma Chamber,’ this country-sized mountain seeps and spews magma from various cracks and fissures in its surface. Rumors say that, if Diablo willed it, he could cause the Magma Chamber to erupt, resulting in the entire Underverse being buried beneath miles of lava and fallout.

If one is ‘brave’ (ie - stupid) enough to ascend the Magma Chamber, they must be aware that the atmosphere is thick with ash and the temperature is enough to deliver third-degree burns to even the most resilient of demons. There’s also the matter of the helldrakes that have begun to populate the super mountain. The arrival of a creature known Volvagia has caused the Magma Chamber to become gradually infested with her spawn. It is said that the banished dragon was imbued with a great power by Diablo, twisting her form into something hellish and nightmarish.

The following NPCs are centered in the Magma Chamber: Volvagia

The Frozen Wastes

To the south of the central hellscape, the temperatures drop down cold enough to freeze most living things solid within a matter of hours. Mountains of frozen rock dominate the landscape, but even at ‘base’ elevation, the oxygen is thin and breaths are hard to find. The Frozen Wastes is littered with the frozen corpses of demons and damned souls alike--fools too stupid to prepare themselves for ‘the adventure’ (or, more aptly, their attempt to escape perdition or domination by other demonic entities). There are many frozen ruins amid this landscape, including a large city that some say Diablo froze solid after their leaders attempted to exert too much independent thought.

Like many of the sparsely populated regions of the Underverse, the Frozen Wastes is home to a handful of wayward individuals.]]>